


Am I Broken?

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, little bit porny but not too graphic, sherlock needs to get out of his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:59:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: After his post-Reichenbach exile, Sherlock is plagued by doubts about his relationship with John. John, who has left his wife and moved back to Baker Street, nightmares and all. John, who still doesn't know what happened during Sherlock's absence. John, who may be the only one able to fix a broken Sherlock...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by [this image](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356516708337/) I found on Pinterest. I love how this image shows how a single touch from John can calm the maelstrom in Sherlock's head. The link to Wattpad is disabled, I would love to credit the artist if possible, please let me know if you have any info about them.
> 
>  
> 
> This work is unbetaed and unBrit-picked. Concrit welcome. Thanks for reading.

“Am I broken, John?”

The words sounded pitiful, like a child’s question. John could hear the barely checked emotion behind the words. He had been sitting in the corner of Sherlock’s bedroom for over an hour, not realising Sherlock knew he was there.  
It was the nightmares again. Ever since his return after the Fall, Sherlock had slept badly. It had been evident to John, who knew him so well, but others had noticed it too – Mycroft had called John on more than one occasion, which was noteworthy in itself. Until he had returned to living at Baker Street, however, John had not realized how bad the situation was.

After Sherlock had returned, having successfully dismantled Moriarty’s criminal network, Mary and John had not stopped arguing about Sherlock. It had taken less than three months before Mary gave John an ultimatum – her or Sherlock. John tried to explain what would happen if he cut off contact with Sherlock, but she had not listened, only packed her bags, laid her engagement ring on his bedside table, and left him. John had returned to Baker Street immediately, partly to help Sherlock, partly because he couldn’t afford to stay in the flat he had shared with Mary. Despite his decision, he had loved Mary, and it was painful to stay in the flat without her. Another good reason to leave, he had thought.

Within a week of settling back into Baker Street, it seemed like old times. Sherlock and John worked cases, Lestrade trailing along keeping up as best he could, Donovan and Anderson sneering behind their hands at the pair. Underneath, though, there was a tension that had not existed previously. While Sherlock and John used to sit comfortably for hours without speaking to each other as they worked or read or Sherlock visited his mind palace, they hardly seemed able to sit in the same room for more than a few minutes. Indeed, John thought, Sherlock hardly looked any better than he had before John had moved in. He still slept only a few hours a night, sometimes not at all, and that time was usually when he fell asleep in his chair or on the couch. John had to bribe or coerce him into eating, even threatening to call Lestrade and have him withhold cases if Sherlock didn’t eat.

John could feel Sherlock watching him intently when he though John was engrossed in a book or writing his blog. He sometimes looked, but catching Sherlock out was always uncomfortable – he either leapt up and left the room, or continued to stare broodingly at John until John looked away. John found himself finding reasons to go out, even meeting up with Harry a few times to avoid the endless hours in the flat together with Sherlock. He could hear the violin playing most evenings until he fell asleep, and this was comforting simply because he knew that Sherlock was not out on the street, getting his kicks doing something that was probably illegal and definitely dangerous. John didn’t know how to broach the subject with Sherlock – despite their living conditions, they felt a million miles apart.

Often, John found himself pining for the early days, where they could communicate without speaking, where the comfortable silence was the hallmark of their relationship. Sherlock had had a range of looks he reserved especially for John, and John missed having Sherlock shoot him a glance that said, “Do I have to?” or “These people are all idiots.” Instead, John wondered if Sherlock now thought he was one of the idiots. He didn’t explain things to John, or ask his opinion, unless John gave it. In the heat of a case, it was less strained, but John knew it was simply that Sherlock needed someone of whom he could bounce ideas. As soon as the case ended, Sherlock would descend into the moody silence that was more and more common nowadays. He would answer questions with a single word, if at all, and John gave up trying to get him to speak unless necessary.

About six weeks after John had moved back in, he started weaning himself off the sleeping tablets his therapist had prescribed.  
“You’re doing better,” she had explained, “I know Sherlock grounds you, and you don’t talk about Mary as much. Let’s see if you can get some sleep the old fashioned way.” When John had looked at her in confusion, she smiled and told him, “Get tired, go to bed. It will happen.” John was somewhat reluctant, as the medication had allowed a deep, dreamless sleep. He never woke feeling truly refreshed, but it was better than the nightmares that had flared when Sherlock had taken the Fall, and had continued until he was delirious from lack of sleep. Only then had he resorted to the medication which he still took now. John reduced his nightly dose from two tablets to one, a little anxious about the outcome. Sherlock had not commented on his quiet nights – post-war nightmares had been reasonably common when he lived at Baker Street, and he certainly had never gone six weeks without one. He hoped that any night time events that did happen would be about war and not Sherlock – that would certainly be awkward.

The first night, John debated warning Sherlock about his changed routine, but it proved unnecessary. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock went to bed fairly early, saying to John,  
“I hope your reduced dose of sleeping medication is still effective tonight, John.” John was too stunned at this comment to reply. Sherlock looked at him impatiently.  
“You’ve been watching the clock as though waiting for something, probably the time your therapist suggested you go to bed to establish a good night time routine. You took some water to your room, but it’s a plastic cup so you don’t break it if it gets swept off the bed side table during a nightmare. There’s camomile tea in the kitchen, which you are now drinking, although you’ve made it weak and it’s only half finished, clearly you don’t like the taste so you’re drinking it under direction, probably you’ve been told it will help to relax you. All these changes to your sleep routine mean something is going to happen to potentially disturb your sleep, which you would only know about if you were initiating it. Since you have never slept so many nights consecutively without a nightmare, yet you still look a little tired each morning, I deduced that you have been taking sleeping pills. Simple.” John shrugged at the end of this – it was typical Sherlock, the old Sherlock that took pleasure in making outrageous statements and watching people, especially John, marvel at his deductive skills.  
“All true.” John replied, but Sherlock was gone.  
John needn’t have worried about his sleep that first night – he slept well, waking at 6 feeling not too bad. He was pleased that this continued for a week, so he decided to try a night without any pills. He made sure not to change anything so that Sherlock would not notice any difference, he hoped at least. At 10, he went upstairs as usual and went to bed, feeling nervous but using some breathing techniques to quiet his nerves. He heard Sherlock begin to play his violin, something quiet and gentle, and was surprised to feel himself drifting off. Perhaps this unmedicated sleep would work, he thought drowsily to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

“NO!” Someone shouted, and John bolted upright into the darkness. Had that been him? He didn’t remember having a dream, and there had definitely been a shout. As he was debating getting up to check on Sherlock, another shout came from the floor below.  
“NO! Stay….stay AWAY!” Sherlock bellowed, and John was downstairs in an instant. He turned on the bathroom light, then raced into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was still asleep, but thrashing about as he called out.  
“Leave him, please, leave him.” He whimpered, sounding distressed. John wanted to wake Sherlock, but there was a part of him that wondered what Sherlock was dreaming about. He knew that it was extremely unlikely that Sherlock would tell him when he woke, and as John stood debating the ethics of letting his roommate remain in the nightmare, Sherlock called out again, “John! Don’t hurt him, please, leave him. JOHN!” He rolled over and over, then fell out of the bed right at John’s feet.

John froze, as the jolt had clearly woken Sherlock. Shaking himself, John knelt down to Sherlock, who didn’t seem to know he was there, drowsy and disoriented as he was. As John stretched one hand out to Sherlock, he realized Sherlock’s shoulders were shaking. A great heaving sob wrenched itself from the slim body, and John was surprised to figure that Sherlock was crying.  
“Sherlock.” Although John said his name quietly, Sherlock jumped violently, clearly startled to hear John’s voice so near. He turned, sitting on the floor, knees to his chest next to John. John sat too, one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, attempting to wipe his face, though his shaking voice gave away his emotion.   
“You woke me.” John replied simply. He stood and grabbed some toilet paper from the bathroom, handing it to Sherlock, who wiped his face.  
John studied his friend’s face for a long moment. Sherlock was clearly shaken from his experience, but he didn’t look surprised, so John surmised this was a recurring dream. A recurring dream about him, in fact. His sleeping pills must have prevented him from waking when Sherlock cried out, plus the fact that it was actually pretty rare for Sherlock to sleep in his bed at night anymore.  
“What did I say?” Sherlock asked without looking at John. Despite the casual way in which Sherlock asked, John could tell that this was important to him. His hands were still shaking as he played with the toilet paper, wringing through his fingers.  
“You were asking someone to stay away, to stop hurting….someone.” John answered. He knew his hesitation before the last word would have been noticed, and that Sherlock would know, but John wasn’t sure what this meant, and he didn’t want to discuss it right now. Sherlock nodded at his answer. He took a deep breath, then sighed.  
“I won’t go back to bed now.” He said to John. John was surprised – it was after 3am.   
“You sure?” John asked. “It’s still pretty early in the morning.”  
“I can’t, John.” Sherlock almost whispered, then donned his dressing gown and strode into the sitting room, throwing himself into his chair. He steepled his fingers and closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at John.  
“You should go back to bed, this will disrupt your sleep routine.” John nodded, unsure what else to do, and turned to go upstairs. Hesitating, he turned back and said, “I could stay up with you if you like.”  
Sherlock didn’t open his eyes again, replying, “Go to sleep, John.” John gave up and went back to bed, hoping sleep would return to him.

Next thing John knew, he was sitting upright in bed, Sherlock shaking him. It wasn’t quite light outside, and John felt the crushing anxiety that accompanied one of his nightmares. He looked at Sherlock, still breathing hard, struggling to return himself to here and now rather than the past.  
“It’s alright, John.” Sherlock was saying in his deep voice. He had a tight grip on John’s upper arms, and the solidness of this figure was reassuring. John felt relief flood through him, along with a shaky feeling after all the adrenaline that had pumped through his system. He ran one trembling hand over his face, trying to wake up completely.  
“Sherlock?” he asked, still trying to control his breathing.  
“Yes?” he replied, not moving from beside the bed.  
“What did I say?” John asked, unconsciously echoing Sherlock’s question of a few hours ago.  
“It was about me.” Sherlock said, his face blank and his tone level. “I think it was about the…thing at St. Bart’s.” John knew he referred to the Fall. He nodded, understanding that Sherlock’s guilt meant he didn’t want to expand on the memory for either of them.   
“Well, almost morning.” John said, looking at the lightening sky out his window. “Best get up, I suppose.”  
Sherlock nodded, releasing John’s arms. John could still feel where the strong hands had gripped him, the muscles sore from the pressure a stressed Sherlock had applied. John rose from the bed and they both descended the stairs in search of coffee. It had been a long night for both of them. John knew he had a lot to think about.

After a scant breakfast, John took himself out into the cold London day on the pretext of buying some groceries. While they did need food, John wanted the space to think about what had happened the previous night. He was sure that he had witnessed something important, related to the other changes in Sherlock. He was determined to figure out what was going on in Sherlock’s head. 

As he walked, he thought about Sherlock’s nightmare. It was obviously about John, about someone hurting John. They had never been in a situation where Sherlock had had to beg someone to stop hurting John, so this scenario was clearly out of his imagination. But why on earth would this be what his brain created to terrify him? Certainly, knowing about the existence of the nightmares made Sherlock’s avoidance of sleep understandable, though John was a bit hurt that he had not confided in his friend. Another part of him, though, pointed out that had he brought it up with John, it would have been natural for John to ask about the subject of the dream. Assumedly, Sherlock would have been embarrassed to admit that it was, in fact, John.

While it cleared up the sleeping, and, to an extent, the eating mysteries, knowledge about the nightmares Sherlock was experiencing did not help John to understand the most central concern he had – the change in Sherlock’s behavior towards John. Initially John thought that it was just the adjustment to London and the proximity to John in general, but as the weeks passed, he realized that this couldn’t be the case. Sherlock seemed exactly the same as he had been before the fall in all other aspects of his life, with all the other people he saw regularly. Except John. With John he was evasive, awkward, subdued, and curt. Frustration built up in John as he once again drew a blank. What on earth was the problem? His anxiety was growing, and it wasn’t helped by the idea which had occurred to him that he couldn’t do this forever. There had to be a point at which he and Sherlock either talked about what was happening…or John left Baker Street. The very idea made him feel sick to the stomach. What would he do with himself if he didn’t have Sherlock? No cases, no strange interactions with people on the street, no violin at midnight… John shook the idea away, not wishing to dwell too much on his emotional reaction to that possibility. He had faced it already when Mary had set her ultimatum, and he never wanted to return to that place again. 

As John collected groceries for the flat, he made a decision. He simply had to speak to Sherlock, to try and find out what was happening. He couldn’t keep living with the stress of seeing Sherlock like this. John cared for Sherlock too much to watch him destroy himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sat in his chair, long legs outstretched until the tips of his shoes just touched the bottom of John’s chair opposite. His fingers were steepled, as was his habit, and he wandered freely through his mind palace. Even in this serene place, he felt anxious. Frustrated, Sherlock tried to find a room to calm himself down. He passed several, with nameplates “Mycroft”, “Redbeard” and even “The Woman”. He stopped at an ornate set of double doors, clearly to the main room on this floor. The nameplate read “Dr John H Watson”. He opened the door and entered, finding himself able to review all his memories and observations of John, all the fact he had gathered and stored carefully away for future reference.  
Because that’s what you did when you…and here Sherlock faltered. He knew Mycroft would be laughing, no, sneering at his current dilemma. Sherlock knew that he cared for John – in that much, things were fine. They were housemates, friends, they were supposed to care for each other, look out for each other. But Sherlock’s limited experience with personal relationships was now letting him down. He had no previous interactions to which he could compare what he had with John, and this troubled him in a new an unsettling way. Friends had been few, and then nonexistent as he grew up – he was perfectly happy, so he had thought, with acquaintances and colleagues. But now, now….John. John had changed everything. Seeing John after so long, what Sherlock though would be relief, was not. It was torture, he decided, as it exacerbated the emotions he felt he had buried, waved away, during his absence.

Sherlock could not define the terms love, sentiment, affection or commitment by drawing on his past. He only knew what people said, which was usually so over the top that it lacked both scientific evidence and believability. Sherlock knew that attraction generated physiological responses; predictable responses which he had noted in himself. Increased heart rate, shallowed breathing, dilated pupils (he had taken photos of himself on his phone to check). Even, he was alarmed to have noticed on several occasions, the beginnings of an erection. After careful observation of himself, Sherlock had concluded that it was John who elicited these responses in him. Sherlock had never given much thought to his sexuality; while he had experienced sex, it had been largely an experiment to broaden his first-hand knowledge of the world. And while he had found it satisfactory, it still amazed him that people went to such effort to secure sexual encounters with others.

The problem had been that Sherlock had no idea what to do about this newly found attraction. Should he tell John? Even a man of his little experience knew that this was a bad idea. John spent half his waking hours telling people that he was not gay; it was likely that a revelation such as this would drive him away from Sherlock, and the thought of John leaving, of him not wanting to see Sherlock, made Sherlock feel…something. Nauseated, frightened, an empty hopelessness with which he was all too familiar. Sherlock knew that he needed John in his life, but he didn’t know the words to use to define it, to make give it understandable parameters. Did he love John? He didn’t really know what that meant. People talked of “loving” food, and music, and their pets; surely that was different to the way he felt about John? He wanted John to be happy, for his nightmares to stop. Sherlock had noticed before the Fall that evenings when he played his violin had a statistically lower likelihood of a nightmare for John, so he played almost every night, the tunes John had previous said he liked. He knew he wanted to protect John, keep him safe, and that was why he had had to disappear, despite the pain he had caused. He wanted to make up for it somehow, but where to begin? 

Sherlock was so preoccupied with trying to resolve this conundrum that he spent more and more time thinking about it. He found himself staring moodily at John, willing him to ask Sherlock what was wrong. But then what would he say? When the nightmares had started, Sherlock had been more terrified that John would find out, than he had been of the dream itself, though that was pretty frightening. Sherlock was unable to save John, who was slowly being pushed to the edge of a building, before dropping out of sight. The dream always ended with Sherlock falling out of bed and hitting the floor at the same time as John would have hit the ground. The thought of losing John brought him almost to tears, and Sherlock began to avoid sleeping altogether. He could tell that John was avoiding him, avoiding Baker Street; he had even seen Harry a few times, though he didn’t disclose that to Sherlock. He was slipping away from Sherlock, and he had no idea how to stop it from happening.

Now that John was reducing his sleeping pills, he had found out about the nightmares. Sherlock had been startled to find John standing in his room the previous night, as he gave in to the tears and sobbed on his bedroom floor. Terrified that John would be disgusted and leave, Sherlock chose to accept John’s lie about him saving “someone”. After he had sent John up to bed, Sherlock had sat up in his chair, not in his mind palace, but reviewing the new details in that evening’s dream. He had been able to see John’s face so clearly; the pleading in his eyes had been awful, desperate, but Sherlock was unable to stop him being dragged inexorably toward the edge of the building.

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock had been jerked back to reality by John’s nightmare. He bolted up the stairs two at a time, his brain registering John’s shouts, storing them away for later. He burst into the room to find John sitting up, sweating and shivering. Sherlock grabbed him, wanting to reassure him, tell him it was going to be alright. He was surprised to find that he actually wanted to hug John, to hold him and keep him safe from his demons. Sherlock made sure his hands held John at arms’ length to ensure he didn’t give into this urge. It wasn’t until John had lead the way downstairs for coffee that Sherlock’s brain reminded him what John had been shouting in his sleep.  
“Don’t leave me Sherlock….I love you, please don’t leave me…”


	4. Chapter 4

John took a deep breath before he made his way into 221b Baker Street. Now that he had decided to address this issue with Sherlock, he wanted to do it immediately, rather than waiting. He walked straight into the kitchen, put away the groceries, storing their milk and beer in the spaces around the body parts in the fridge, then turned to Sherlock. He was perched like a bird on his chair, watching John, though neither man had greeted the other when he came in.  
“We need to talk.” John said, then watched resignedly as Sherlock sprang up and grabbed his coat and scarf, clearly intending to escape Baker Street. John didn’t move, simply saying,  
“I called Lestrade.” Sherlock froze, then looked at John with a mixture of annoyance and…was that fear? John wondered. Sighing dramatically, Sherlock returned his coat and scarf to the back of the door and stalked over to his chair, where he folded himself into the smallest possible space. He always sulked when John asked Lestrade to refuse Sherlock if he came to the Yard. John rolled his eyes. It was obviously too much to ask that they have a grown up conversation. Although, the fear John had seen in Sherlock’s eyes did make him take a gentler tack. Clearly, Sherlock was worried about what John was going to say.  
“I’m not leaving.” John blurted out, a moment of inspiration having told him that Sherlock may just be fearing this exact event. His insight was confirmed when he saw Sherlock’s stiff body relax a little, though he still didn’t speak. John sat in his chair and looked at Sherlock.  
“What’s going on?” John asked softly, then sat and waited for a response. He was going to get some sort of clue here, if he had to wait all day.  
“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock replied, a little muffled as he had buried his chin in the crook of his folded elbows.  
“That’s what you say when you know exactly what I mean and you don’t want to talk about it.” John pointed out calmly.  
“Fine then, I don’t want to talk about it.” Sherlock said stubbornly. John tried again.  
“I’m worried about you.” He told Sherlock, and was rewards with a direct look from those piercing eyes. Sherlock hadn’t moved any other part of his body, but his eyes were fixed on John.  
“Why?” He asked, and John’s raised eyebrow and cocked head spoke volumes that even Sherlock could understand.  
“I’m fine.” Sherlock insisted, then countered with, “Everybody has nightmares, John.” John had been expecting this barb, and retorted with,  
“Yes, but not everyone ends up sobbing on their floor while the subject of their nightmare passes the loo paper.” John had known that this was a risky call, baldly stating how vulnerable and hurting Sherlock had been, but he was too worried about Sherlock not to take the chance. He was rewarded with a reaction and a half – Sherlock swept out of his chair like a maelstrom, and started pacing. Sherlock did this when he was thinking, and Jon could see his mind racing Grimly, he pressed on.  
“Why are your nightmares about me, Sherlock?” Sherlock didn’t answer, and John he had to find the right question in order for Sherlock to reply. He asked another.  
“What happens?” John asked, and Sherlock, shot John a pleading look. John could read the silent missive: Please don’t go there. This was the key, then, John felt.  
“Someone is hurting me, is that right?” John asked, bracing himself. He knew that this wouldn’t be easy or fun. He watched Sherlock getting more agitated as he theorized about the content of the dream.  
“Someone we know? Is it Moriarty, Sherlock? Is he back? Perhaps we’re at the swimming pool. Or on the roof of Bart’s. Maybe…” John was cut off by Sherlock suddenly whirling, planting his hands on the arms of John’s chair and shouting, “Enough!” His face was inches from John’s, the shocked expression on the doctor mirrored by the detective. Sherlock looked frightened as well, John saw, and he was breathing heavily.  
“I’m sorry.” John said quietly, but Sherlock didn’t move. They stayed there, staring at each other, neither wanting to look away. The charged atmosphere, so close to bearing a war, now changed; the intensity was moving slowly and surely away from the argumentative and towards something far less hostile. Both men could both feel it and see that the other felt it, for there was no denying the fact that this was a moment between two people with a bond closer than any other.  
Before either moved or spoke, a voice came up the stairs.  
“Oo-ee! Boys! Everything alright? I heard shouting again!” Mrs Hudson. The interruption broke the spell that seemed to be holding them there, and Sherlock called down a reassurance to their landlady, before turning his back on John and standing at the fireplace.  
“I expect my mind is trying to show me what I did to you when I…with what happened at Bart’s.” Sherlock said quietly, so quietly that John had to strain to hear it. He turned, a small smile doing a poor job of masking his pain.   
“My own personal brand of hell.” He said self-deprecatingly. For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to speak again, but instead he just nodded curtly to John and strode into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.  
John was floored. He didn’t really know how the conversation was going to go, but that was definitely not how he could ever have imagined. And what had Sherlock meant when he said, “My own personal brand of hell”? Obviously, he would be upset at John’s death, but Sherlock could not have known how much John cared for him before the Fall, or that his feelings had smoldered all the time he was gone, ready to reignite the moment John had seen Sherlock alive again. That level of pain just wasn’t comparable to a friend, even a best friend, as John was to Sherlock. John looked out the window. It was raining in sheets, as it had threatened to do all morning. Nothing for it but to stay in, knowing Sherlock was sitting in his bedroom, not wanting to speak to him. Although…a sudden inspiration struck, and John grabbed his coat and walked out the door, despite the rain. There was one person who might be able to shed some light on what was going on here. Mycroft.


	5. Chapter 5

John hadn’t waited for the rain to slacken off before he had set out for Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes Club. He had sent a quick text, and left without waiting for a reply, knowing that Mycroft would see him.

We need to talk about Sherlock. Urgent. Diogenes in 30. JH.

This wasn’t usually how John communicated, but it was how Mycroft did, so he knew it would attract Mycroft’ attention. The cab pulled up to the nondescript building with the small brass name plate, and John bolted out through the rain and into the doors. He waited, knowing that his arrival would have been noted and that Anthea would be down for him shortly. He didn’t have to wait long – in less than two minutes, he was in the lift with her, so preoccupied he had barely said hello.  
Mycroft sat on the armchair in his office, tea and cakes on the small table next to him. He was looking out of the window at the rain, though he rose when John walked in.  
“Doctor Watson, how nice to see you.” He said smoothly, without a hint of emotion to confirm his words were true. John nodded at him, adding, “Mycroft.”  
“Do sit down. Tea?” Mycroft offered, pretending not to notice John’s tense stance or the grim look on his face.  
“Thank you.” John replied, then sternly told himself that Mycroft could help, as long as John wasn’t a complete git. Taking a deep breath, he opened their conversation.  
“I assume you know why I’m here?” John asked, taking the proffered teacup.  
“Sherlock, of course.” Mycroft replied calmly. “Has there been…a development?” He raised one eyebrow over his own tea cup.  
“He’s having nightmares.” John revealed. Mycroft nodded. “About me.” John elaborated, and the look of mild surprise on Mycroft’s face was the equivalent of a lesser man falling out of his chair.  
“How do you know that?” Mycroft asked carefully, his eyes fixed on John.  
“I was there, last night when he was calling out.” John explained. The eyebrow rose again, his intimation clear.  
“No, I wasn’t sleeping there,” John said, exasperatedly, “I heard him from my bedroom.”  
“I thought you were taking quite strong sleeping pills, John.” Mycroft commented. “Have you been skipping doses?” John’s irritation at Mycroft and his endless wealth of knowledge increased.  
“You probably know already that I have.” He replied crossly. A faint smile crossed Mycroft’s face.  
“And was there further explanation from my brother as to the meaning of these nightmares of his?” Mycroft asked.  
“I tried to talk to him this morning but he wouldn’t answer me.” John admitted. He leaned forward, elbows resting his knees.  
“Look, I’m worried about him, Mycroft. He’s no better now that I’ve moved back in than when I was living with Mary! He can’t go on like this.” John took a deep breath. “Do you know what’s going on?” Mycroft looked at John, neither answering nor smiling. He seemed to be appraising John, deciding on how much he was ready to know.  
“Tell me John, why did Mary leave you?” Mycroft asked suddenly, and John was reminded of Sherlock and his unexpected questions.  
“I beg your pardon?” He replied.  
“I’m guessing there was an ultimatum in there – chose me, or chose Sherlock.” Mycroft continued.  
“How on earth did you know that?” John blustered. Mycroft did not smile, but he too leaned forwards.  
“Because you left her, John, to come back to Sherlock. Human nature is predictable, especially in matters of the heart.”  
John looked confused. “You make it sound like I was choosing between lovers.”   
“Weren’t you?” Mycroft asked simply, looking at John.  
“I’m NOT G-“ John started to shout, but Mycroft, in an unusual display of ill manners, cut him off.  
“You have assured every person from here to Whitechapel of that fact, Doctor Watson. A lack of homosexual feelings in your past would not preclude you from falling in love with an extraordinary person, however, regardless of their sex.” John was speechless. He listened mutely while Mycroft went on.  
“I have observed you and Sherlock, John, both with and without your consent, as you must be aware. Even a layperson can see the connection between yourselves. Have you not wondered why every second person who meets you both assumes you are a couple? Whether or not you have admitted it to yourself, you are in love with Sherlock.” Mycroft paused here, coldly observing John’s shocked expression, before adding quietly, “As he is with you, Doctor Watson.” If John had been expecting something, it was not that.  
“Sherlock is in love?” He asked, disbelievingly. “With me?” John stood and started pacing, thinking, his mind racing.   
“Indeed.” Mycroft answered. John continued to pace, muttering to himself, before abruptly turning and facing Mycroft. “I assume you have evidence to back this claim.” He stated.  
“Which one?” Mycroft enquired. “That you love Sherlock, or that Sherlock loves you?” John stared. This was too much to process. He could accept, just, that his feelings for Sherlock were beyond the usual boundaries of friendship. He certainly cared for him more than any other friend he had ever had. But love? John didn’t know. He had thought that he had loved Mary, but when Mary had put that choice to him, it hadn’t taken him more than a second to choose. So did that mean that he did love Sherlock? His mind whirled. Mycroft interrupted, his quiet voice saying,  
“I have numerous observations that support my hypothesis, Doctor Watson. Sherlock, I believe, has never been in love, and this new experience is causing his anxiety and stress. He had no idea what he is doing, and without help, I suspect he may resort to other methods to dull his emotions. Destructive ones.” John knew that Mycroft, behind his unruffled exterior, was desperately worried about his brother.   
“So what do you want me to do about it?” John asked. His head was spinning now. He was the one that had called the meeting with Mycroft, wanting to get information, and now here he was, asking for instructions!  
“I suspect that anxiety on both parts can be resolved with one action, Doctor Watson.” John stared again, before the penny dropped.  
“You want me to tell him?” John asked. Mycroft nodded. “Confirmation of your feelings for him would allow Sherlock to opportunity to share his own without concern of rejection or ridicule, as I suspect he fears may occur.”  
“You want me to tell Sherlock Holmes that I love him.” John repeated. Mycroft sighed.  
“Not in so many words, if it embarrasses you. But make it clear to him that such an admission from him would not be badly received.”  
“Right.” John answered, feeling dazed. He stood up, went to shake hands, changed his mind, and nodded at Mycroft.  
“Take care of him, John.” Mycroft said in farewell. Mycroft had never called him John before, he thought dimly, leaving the room.  
In the cab, John changed his mind and asked the cabbie to take him to St. Bart’s instead. He needed to talk this through with someone, and Molly Hooper was the best choice he could come up with.


	6. Chapter 6

Are you free for lunch? I need some advice. John.

Mycroft already called. Our advice is the same. Tell him, he loves you too! Molly and Greg.

Sitting outside Bart’s, John stared in amazement at his phone. How on earth had Mycroft known that he would come to see Molly? And what was he doing contacting Molly in the first place? From her short message, it was obvious that she and Mycroft, and possibly Greg too, had had discussions about the nature of Sherlock and John’s relationship and they had all come to the same conclusion – they were in love. They were in love, and all but they could see it. John buried his head in his hands, trying to compose himself. John checked his watch, and realised with a start that his travels around London had taken most of the day. He directed the cabbie back to Baker Street, hoping Sherlock would be out on a case.  
Unfortunately, Sherlock was in, lying on the couch wandering through his mind palace. John made himself a cup of tea, then sat in his chair, laptop open. He was moody, still processing and largely rejecting most of Mycroft’s assertions about how he felt. Without realising it, his eyes strayed over to Sherlock. Even if it were true that he was in love with Sherlock, he had never had any romantic ideas that he could remember. Surely, that would have been part of the package? John wondered to himself. He could remember kissing Mary, the thrill that came each time he pressed his lips to hers. Experimentally, he imagined doing the same with Sherlock – one hand sliding around the back of his head, burying itself in his onyx curls as their lips slid over each other. Without warning, the same thrill made its way through John as when he had imagined being with Mary. He didn’t move, wondering what on earth was going on. Again, he imagined walking over to Sherlock, this time running his mouth along the curve of his jawbone, licking the pale skin until he reached that sensitive spot below Sherlock’s ear, where he could suck gently, or not so gently, hearing the groan deep from within Sherlock’s throat…  
Woah. John thought, snapping his gaze away from Sherlock, where the hell had that come from? And speaking of, he added, shifting uncomfortably to adjust the sudden bulge in his trousers, where the hell had THAT come from? It seemed that the simple fact was that Sherlock Holmes turned him on. John tried a similar scenario in his mind with other men, and none made so much as a hair turn, yet with Sherlock in the picture, he could feel the classic signs of arousal changing his body – the increase heartbeat, shallow respiration, definite erection…Maybe Mycroft was right, John conceded for the first time. Perhaps he was so busy telling the world that he wasn’t gay, he missed the fact that he had actually fallen for a man? For some reason the fact that he didn’t seem attracted to any other men made John feel a little better, less like he didn’t know himself. He wasn’t concerned about being gay, per se, it was more that it shook his sense of identity. Loving Sherlock, however, fit seamlessly into his image of himself.  
Bearing in mind this new discovery, John looked back over at Sherlock, who had not moved since John had come home. He now looked at Sherlock in a new way – cataloguing the shape of his jaw, wondering how it would feel to grasp those curls and bend his head down for a kiss. Dragging his eyes away, John stared at his computer screen, trying to think of something to write for his blog post. Soon, thought, he found himself watching Sherlock again, wondering what would actually happen if he…John mentally shook himself. If this was going to dominate his thoughts, he would be better off going to bed, and he considered packing up and retiring early. The idea of sleeping, with no pills to back him up and the looming possibility of those nightmares again, was not an attractive one.  
It was at this point that John realised this new train of thought would totally explain Sherlock’s behavior. He reviewed how he, John, had been behaving since he arrived home. He had sat down in the same room as Sherlock, wanting to be near him; had proceeded to do nothing productive, just stare alternately into space or at Sherlock; and was considering leaving before it got too hard, except that sleep was elusive due to the nightmares (about Sherlock, of course).  
“Good grief, he was right.” John spoke out loud without realising. Mycroft had been right – Sherlock being in love with John explained all the evidence. It was further explained by accounting for the fact that Sherlock had probably never been in love, and therefore had no way of processing his emotions, never mind acting appropriately on them. John felt a wave of compassion for Sherlock. This was difficult enough, as a reasonably experienced man of his own age, let alone doing it all on your own for the first time!  
At the sound of John’s voice, Sherlock had turned his head, speaking for the first time since John had returned home.  
“Who was right?” John stared for a moment. He and Sherlock had not seen or spoken to each other since their argument this morning, when Sherlock had insisted that he was fine. Right, John thought, no more games. I’m the only one of us with any idea how to deal with this – so I’m going to do what your brother suggested and make you show your hand.  
“Your brother.” John answered, and Sherlock immediately sat up, turning to face John across their sitting room.  
“Mycroft? Did you see him today?” Sherlock asked, intent on his answer. John merely nodded.  
“Why?” Sherlock pressed. John wondered if Mycroft had had the same conversation with Sherlock on an earlier occasion as he had had with John that morning.  
“I wanted to ask his opinion about your nightmares, Sherlock.” John answered simply. He watched Sherlock, the emotions playing uncharacteristically across his face.  
“And what is his opinion?” Sherlock seemed very anxious, but John wasn’t going to bite.   
“His opinion is correct, Sherlock. I think you already know what his opinion is.” John looked right at Sherlock and could see the confusion, the hope and panic. Sherlock definitely knew Mycroft’s theory. John had spent enough time reading people with Sherlock to see that.  
“Well, I’m going to bed, unless there was something?” John said to Sherlock, offering him the opportunity to speak. Sherlock was looking away from John now, and he shook his head, muttering “No, nothing.” Filled with disappointment, John packed up his laptop and made his way upstairs to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite the early night, John did not sleep. He suspected that Sherlock, having barely slept the last three nights, would crash into bed at some point; when he heard Sherlock put down his violin and head to his bedroom, John swung his feet over the edge of his bed and prepared to go downstairs. He had no idea what he was going to do, but the last few hours, thinking over that ridiculous conversation between he and Sherlock, had left him cursing his decision to take Mycroft’s advice. Why on earth was he taking relationship advice from Mycroft Holmes, for goodness sake? It was clear that Sherlock had understood that Mycroft and John had spoken about Sherlock’s nightmares. John had decided that there were two possible solutions to the question: why had Sherlock not spoken up before John went to bed? One, he only knew about Mycroft’s theory regarding Sherlock, not the second part, about John. In that case, Sherlock knows that John is accepting of Sherlock’s love, but has no idea of John’s feelings, therefore, he doesn’t risk saying anything. Two, he knows about both parts of Mycroft’s theory, but is still too uncertain to say anything. Either way, John decided, this was too cruel to both of them. It would be up to him to be blunt and honest with Sherlock, and ask him directly how he felt.   
Tiptoeing into Sherlock’s bedroom, John heard him whimper in his sleep. John froze, hoping to avoid a repeat of the previous night. Sherlock just rolled over, his back now to John, still whimpering. Impulsively, John put his torch on the bed side table and sat on the edge of the bed.  
“I’m here,” he said quietly, and placed one hand on Sherlock’s back. Instantly, Sherlock stilled, a long sigh escaping him.  
“John.” He murmured in his sleep.   
“It’s okay, I’m here.” John repeated, his had warm against the cool cotton of Sherlock’s t-shirt.   
“Mmmmm….” Sherlock exhaled again. John’s touch clearly calmed him, and John sat like that for a while, listening to the deep, regular breathing of contented sleep. In a few minutes, John rose, picked up his torch and moved over to sit in the chair against the wall. He wondered if his presence in the room would be enough to calm Sherlock again? As the time passed, John listened to Sherlock’s breathing, deep and regular, until he rolled over and exhaled, more like a long sigh. Another few breaths, and he whispered,  
“John?” Unsurprised that Sherlock had awakened, John replied,  
“I’m here, Sherlock.”  
“Thank you.”  
“What for?” John was puzzled. He could hear a tremor in Sherlock’s voice, like he was on the verge of tears.  
“You calmed me earlier when I was having a bad dream.”  
“Oh.” John replied. He could hear Sherlock’s breathing again, a contrast to earlier. Now it was ragged, and John could hear the struggle to maintain control.  
“Sherlock?” John asked into the darkness. “Are you okay?”


	8. Chapter 8

“Am I broken, John?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John sighed. ‘Why would you think that?” The pause that followed was long, but John knew that his patience was the best thing he could offer Sherlock at the moment. So he waited in the still darkness, broken only by Sherlock’s breathing. John was increasingly desperate to find out what was going on in Sherlock’s head – was it anything like what has happening in his? – but he knew it was up to Sherlock to lead this conversation.   
“I left because Moriarty threatened my friends.” Sherlock said quietly. He had never really explained to John his reasons for what happened on St. Barts’ roof, other than to say it was necessary. John wasn’t sure how this connected with Sherlock’s initial question, but he was nothing if not patient. So again, he waited.  
“I spent most of my time away dismantling Moriarty’s network. It was vast, and they were devious, and it took all my skills to do it. I thought of nothing else, it was all consuming….” He trailed off, lost for a moment in the memories of what he had done. After a moment, he resumed speaking.  
“And then all of a sudden I was done. And I had nothing to do, nothing but wait for Mycroft to give me the all clear to return to London.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and continued haltingly. “Nothing to do but think about my….friends. If they remembered me, if they forgave me….” There was another long pause, before his trembling voice added, “and I think I broke.” He stopped, and John asked tentatively, “What happened, Sherlock?”  
“I’ve always been in control, John, able to master my emotions. Sentiment, I’ve never understood it. But one day I saw something, and it reminded me of one of these….friends…and I…just broke. It flooded up in me, memories, emotion, sentiment…I couldn’t control it. Every person reminded me, every place, every word…I couldn’t control my reactions. It…frightened me, John. It still frightens me.” John recalled Sherlock’s reaction to his own fear in Dorset, when they were after the Hound of Baskerville, and he could understand how much this sudden emotional release would have affected the detective. Sherlock was such an innocent when it came to his own emotions, he would be overwhelmed by such an event. Anyone who dealt with Sherlock on an intimate level would need to tread slowly and carefully.  
“And then I returned, and…and it didn’t get any better. I thought if I saw…my friend, it would be easier, I wouldn’t have the memories intruding all the time. But it was different, everything was different. It wasn’t like it was before, and my observational skills had changed, become somehow more acute. I notice everything, everything about you, and it distracts me from important things! From my work, John!” John could hear his frustration, his bewilderment, and was glad for the darkness so he could smile at his friend’s slip of the tongue. Sherlock continued, “I’ve spent a lot of my life deducing things about other people, John. I know what attraction looks like, it’s a fairly simple physiological occurrence” John smiled again, “but I didn’t know it felt like this.” He almost spat the word ‘felt’ as though it was blasphemous, and John knew his derision was covering his distress.  
“You’re not broken, Sherlock.” John broke this silence, and the deep exhalation from Sherlock marked his relief. John suspected he was relieved not only at John’s words, but his understanding, his empathy. Sherlock had sneered at the influence of emotion over behavior, and John was realising that Sherlock had never experienced the deep, wrenching emotion of profound romantic love – that primal driver of reckless action, and, in Sherlock’s case, despair and self-destruction. His derision was born of ignorance, and Sherlock Holmes did not do well with ignorance.  
John took a deep breath.   
“This is what people feel, all the time.”  
“All the time?” Sherlock whispered. John nodded, then remembered Sherlock couldn’t see him.  
“All the time. Being away from someone you care about, especially when you don’t know how they feel,” John swallowed here, his voice becoming thick with his own emotion, “is hard. It’s hard because of this, Sherlock, what you’re experiencing right now. Because everything reminds you of that person, but you can’t see them, or talk to them, or hear them say the things you know they would say at certain times. And especially, especially, when you are wondering if they remember you.” John paused, but Sherlock remained silent, so he continued, fighting to keep his voice even.   
“And it can be harder, much harder, when you do see them, and you want to be near them but you don’t know how they feel. You feel empty, sad, hopeless, but you want to see them anyway. You want them to be safe, and happy, and you start doing things for them, and noticing every detail of them to tide you over when they’re not there.” John stopped, then concluded, “that’s what attraction is, Sherlock.”   
A sound of disbelief from the bed prompted John to say,  
“I know you know about the heartrate, and the pupils, and the shallow breathing, but it’s not just physiological, Sherlock! All of that stops your brain. It doesn’t just happen and you don’t notice. Your chest gets tight, and all you can think about is being close to them, and what they feel like, and taste like, and smell like.” John stopped abruptly, his description beginning to affect him with the same symptoms as he was describing.  
Sherlock was quiet, and John waited for his lead. Did he understand? John wondered. Was he experiencing what John had described, or was it something else? He hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t back down, now that they had come so far.  
“That’s exactly what happens.” Sherlock whispered. The silence stretched on, and the tension grew steadily. With all his being, John was willing Sherlock to speak, to admit he had been speaking about John. Finally, John couldn’t stand it any longer – he had to give Sherlock some encouragement.  
“The hardest part is that it’s Schrodinger’s cat.” John explained, grateful to have seen enough Big Bang Theory to be able to use the analogy correctly. “Until you know how the other person feels, it’s all about ‘if’. You don’t know if they…but once you know the answer, good or bad,” he shrugged into the darkness, “it’s better. You either move on, heart broken, or it becomes…” he trailed off.  
“What?” Sherlock asked intently.  
“Enjoyable.” John said quietly. “Fun. Relaxing. Invigorating. Safe. Affirming.” John hoped again that Sherlock would have the courage to trust him and admit the truth.


	9. Chapter 9

“John.” Sherlock said meaningfully, and John’s heart skipped a beat, then started pounding against his ribs as thought trying to escape.  
“Yes, Sherlock?” he answered, and even he could hear the tremble in his own voice.  
“You know every person of consequence in my life.”   
“Yes, I do.” John answered.  
“Who do you think I have been talking about, John?” Sherlock asked. John paused, and it was Sherlock’s turn to wait. John could see that Sherlock was trying to have John take the risk, to be the one to say it out loud, and he understood how much it had taken for Sherlock to even ask that question. Finally, John answered,  
“Well, your nightmares are about me. You accidentally referred to me earlier, instead of your ‘friend’, plus, I’m the only friend, really in your life, Sherlock.” Taking a breath, John added, “Mainly, though, it’s because I know you so well, Sherlock, that I’m quite sure you’ve been talking about me. And I’m actually quite okay with it.” The silence from the other side of the room was total. Sherlock wasn’t breathing, and John realized that he had given no indication of how he felt about Sherlock. Sherlock was terrible at reading subtext, he must be unsure – John would have to be unambiguous in his affirmation.  
Rising from his chair, John lit his torch. He could see Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed farthest from him, head in hands. He flinched at the sudden light, but did not raise his head or speak. John could see the tension in his shoulders, and the tumult in his head was almost visible. Placing the torch on the bedside table nearest him, John crawled across the bed until he kneeled behind Sherlock. Stretching out one hand, John placed his fingers gently on the back of Sherlock’s bowed neck. Instantly, a change came over him. The shoulders sagged, and a shuddering breath exploded out of Sherlock. They sat like that for a long moment, John’s fingers brushing the soft skin at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. The chatter was gone, John could tell, and Sherlock was reveling in their quiet companionship. With a sigh, Sherlock straightened but did not turn.  
“So, what now?” Sherlock asked, and his tone was resigned, rather than happy or relieved. John frowned.  
“What do you mean?” John replied. Sherlock gave a small moan slid off the bed onto the floor. John was startled. He needed to see Sherlock’s face, so he slid off the bed and sat instead on the bed in front of Sherlock.   
“Hey, what is it?” John asked, pulling at Sherlock’s hands. They gave easily, and he looked up at John hopelessly. With a sudden shock, John understood that Sherlock didn’t, in fact, understand. He needed John to take the lead, and probably would for a while. John would need to be open and empathetic as Sherlock adjusted to a new element in his life. John wondered fleetingly if Sherlock had ever had any deeply personal interaction with a woman, or a man for that matter. Had he ever had a candid conversation about himself? Had he kissed anybody? Had sex, even? An unreasonable lick of jealously flickered through John, and he grinned unconsciously. Sherlock, still watching John, saw the smile and frowned.   
“No, no,” John hurried to appease him, “I’m not laughing at you.” His smile broadened. “I’m just realising that this is, in fact, going to be fun.” Sherlock looked confused, and John pulled on his hands until he was kneeling between John’s knees. John smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, and leaned in until his mouth was right next to Sherlock’s ear.   
“Take my pulse.” He whispered, and felt a shudder of desire run through Sherlock as his breath caressed his ear. A cool hand enveloped his wrist, and he knew Sherlock could feel his heart racing, and hear John’s ragged breathing in his ear at their closeness.  
“You’ve been stopping my brain too, Sherlock.” John whispered again, then, unable to resist, pressed his lips to the soft skin below Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock gasped at the contact, and would have fallen against John had he not caught him. John paused, then kissed the same spot again, his lips parting so he could taste Sherlock’s skin. Both men moaned at the same time. John paused, and a chuckle escaped his lips. Sherlock froze, and for a heartbeat John wondered…then Sherlock chuckled too, and John relaxed. He leaned back until they could see each other, their foreheads touching. Each of them still bore a smile on their lips, John reading the relief and amazement in Sherlock’s face. His smile broadened as he realized that Sherlock finally understood – John was as attracted to him as he was to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes dropped to John’s mouth, and he shifted slightly forward, then hesitated. John leaned back, withdrawing a little, and ducked to catch Sherlock’s eye again.  
“Sherlock,” he said seriously, “We are definitely at a point where you can kiss me.” Sherlock smiled self-consciously, then looked again to John’s lips. John resisted the urge to lean in to Sherlock – he wanted Sherlock to feel secure and comfortable with him physically, and this was the first step. His heart rate sped up as Sherlock moved closer, still hesitant, and his lips met John’s in a soft kiss. John kissed back, gently, wanting Sherlock to take the lead as he grew in confidence. After a few moments, Sherlock paused, his lips resting on John’s. Not wanting to push, but reading the hesitance as uncertainty, John reestablished the kiss, parting his lips and inviting Sherlock to do the same. He did so, moaning deep in his throat as their kiss grew more intimate. Sherlock’s hands gripped the sheet either side of John, and John ran his hands deep into Sherlock’s hair, curling the strands around his fingers tightly.   
The sensation was too much for Sherlock, who wrenched himself away from John, breathing hard, gasping for air. John released his hands immediately, his own breath coming in gasps. After their breathing had slowed, Sherlock looked at John questioningly. John did not smile, instead taking one of Sherlock’s hands and interweaving their fingers.   
“Somehow,” he said soothingly, “I think we will both sleep well tonight if I stay here.” Sherlock nodded, still looking apprehensive.  
They both crawled across the bed, tucking under the covers, John turning to switch off the torch. Rolling back to Sherlock, he found him lying flat on his back. John’s hand had found Sherlock’s chest, and his heart was still pounding hard. Sherlock didn’t move despite the contact, and John wondered if he needed some space.  
“Sherlock?” John asked, wondering if he was alright.  
“Yes.” Sherlock answered immediately.  
“We can talk about all this in the morning, but for now, you need to know that I’m okay with however fast or slow you want to go. I can sleep on this side if you…” He was cut off by Sherlock throwing himself at John, curling into him and intertwining their legs. John chuckled and put his arms around the detective, drawing him close.  
“Can we sleep like this?” Sherlock asked.  
“Of course, Sherlock.” John answered, and Sherlock sighed.  
“This is definitely better.” Sherlock said quietly. John smiled in the darkness and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.  
“Yes,” he said, “definitely better.”


	10. Chapter 10

They must have slept for hours, because the sun was well up when Sherlock stirred the next morning. He woke to find himself curled into a body, which he identified by scent as…John. Bitterly disappointed to find himself still dreaming, Sherlock went to turn away, only to find John’s arms tightly around him. Surprised, Sherlock realised he was actually awake. With this came the memory of the evening before. He had been feeling lower than he ever had, frightened and confused, even in his dream. When he had awoken, in the dark, he had known that John was there. It seemed like the perfect storm of circumstances – the dark, the patience of the man he could tell was awake and waiting for him, his own despair peaking at this particular hour. And then the words had seemed to pour out of him. A side to himself he had rarely seen and certainly never embraced had shown itself. He had spoken haltingly sometimes, the self-exploration and description a new and awkward experience, but John had never wavered. He had been patient and kind, empathetic and enduring, as Sherlock now realized he needed. It had been such a relief to have John introduce him to the fact that this mess of emotion, this lack of control over such strong forces within himself, was normal. It was, in fact, what most people dealt with every day. Sherlock was amazed that anybody could even function. How had the British Empire even gotten started with so many distractions happening all over the place?  
After all the conversation, finally, there had been no more talking needed. Of course John had known of whom he spoke; but Sherlock waited for either the affirmation or denial of John’s own affections, none came. Sherlock was confused, embarrassed, heartbroken (so this is what it feels like). He had been unable to speak, even in the dark, and had buried his face in his hands in anguish. As thoughts whirled through his head, his mind in torment, John had come. He laid his fingers on Sherlock’s skin, and calmness quashed the chaos like a blanket. John. John is here. A little voice in his head whispered, banishing the darkness. Sherlock had sat there, unable to move as the hope had blossomed in his chest. He hasn’t left yet. The voice told him. Sherlock had been unable to bear it, slipping off the bed, but John had understood, had made him look in those deep chocolate eyes.  
What had he said? “I’m just realising that this is, in fact, going to be fun.” Confusion had reigned for a moment, until John’s breath had tickled his ear, sending sparks through Sherlock like electricity.   
“Take my pulse.” He had whispered, and in a daze, Sherlock had done so. Elevated beyond any reasonable doubt. And then John had….Sherlock shivered again, remembering the first touch of John’s lips to his skin. He had made some noise he knew, though it was nothing to the second kiss, the wetness from John’s mouth burning in contrast to the coolness of the air. He had hesitated to kiss John’s mouth, then, not knowing what was acceptable – did he have to ask? What was the usual way in these situations? – and again, John had gently guided him. It was thrilling to know that he was now allowed to kiss John, to touch John at will. He wondered what the parameters were for that. He must ask John. Looking up, Sherlock could see the pulse beating steadily in John’s throat as he slept. He wondered what it would feel like under his lips. If he stretched, he might just be able to reach…

John awoke slowly, feeling more refreshed than he had in a long time. He lay for a while, the scent of Sherlock filling him as he assimilated this new facet to his life. After all they had been though, together and apart, for this to eventuate was surprising, John had to admit, but it felt very right. He could feel Sherlock curled into him, even in sleep, and their legs were still entangled. As he contemplated the marvel of the last twelve hours, Sherlock, evidently not asleep, stretched up and kissed the base of John’s throat.  
John gasped at the contact, then moaned. It felt wonderful, Sherlock’s lips on his skin, beginning the exploration that would take them to every inch of the other’s body. Sherlock now realised John was not only awake but enjoying his ministrations. He began to trail kisses along John’s collarbone towards his shoulder until Sherlock was propped up on one elbow, looking down at John’s face. John opened his eyes, squinting against the light. He focused on Sherlock, who was watching him with a mixture of amazement and uncertainty. A smile came, unbidden, to John’s face, and he was rewarded when Sherlock’s face instantly lit up, flood by relief and contentment, despite the small smile.  
“Good morning.” John offered, and Sherlock replied in kind.  
“Very good morning,” John expanded, and then,  
“Is that a blush, Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock ducked his head back into John’s chest, and John was sure he felt the laughter that bubbled up inside him. His delight at this new discovery could not be contained. He bent down and kissed Sherlock’s head, then sat up, leaning against the headboard. They looked at each other then, in the intimate way of lovers, rather than friends.   
“What did you mean,” Sherlock asked suddenly, “last night, when you said, “This is going to be fun?” John had to think for a moment, searching for the context in his memory.   
“Oh,” he said, “well…” and thought for a moment. “Usually at the start of a relationship, it’s exciting, and fun, as you learn about each other, but there’s an element of risk, too, because you don’t know the other person so well. You have to build up that trust, and it can be awkward or difficult if someone misunderstands something.” He paused, not wanting to offend Sherlock. “When I said that, I think I’d realised that we would be discovering new things together, about each other,” he cleared his throat and looked away for a moment, “about what we like, and don’t like, and how things…work” Sherlock was smiling now, and John shrugged self-consciously, “and it would be all the fun without the risk. Because I know you so well, and I trust you, and you trust me. So it’s going to be fun.” John cleared his throat again, then looked at Sherlock. Far from the uncertain, tentative looks he had been giving John, this was back to the self-assured, smug being that John knew so well. John raised his eyebrows.  
“You seem to be taking this well.” John commented. Sherlock smiled at him.  
“I’m a fast learner.” John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who admitted, “And it’s nice to hear I won’t be the only one discovering new things.” For a moment they gazed at each other again, before Sherlock moved swiftly, swinging one leg over and straddling John. John’s eyes flew open in surprise, and he gaped at Sherlock, who looked quite calm. John placed one palm on his chest, and his rapidly beating heart gave the game away.   
“So, discovery.” Sherlock said, in a deep, seductive voice that thrilled John to the core. “Does that mean we get to…experiment?” John burst out laughing, nodding in the affirmative as he did so. Sherlock continued,  
“Right, well in that case, let’s see what kind of reaction this experiment can generate…” John suddenly swallowed, looking at the intent in Sherlock’s eyes. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock was a bit of an expert at this. He was certainly confident enough, although that was Sherlock, anyway. John just hadn’t expected to see it here.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock looked down at John, and his heart was pounding. He had no idea what he was doing, but having John so close to him was too good an opportunity to waste. He wanted to know John all over, and when better to start? By the look of anticipation on John’s face, too, Sherlock was sure they would both find it enjoyable.  
He must have hesitated, lost in thought, because John said, “There’s no wrong way, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes fixed on John’s, who whispered, “pick a spot and kiss me there…” Sherlock’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed, before placing one forefinger on the exact spot below John’s ear as John had kissed him last night. From the expression on John’s face, he understood the significance. Lowering his head, Sherlock allowed his lips to touch John’s skin. A sharp intake of breath told him John had definitely felt the electricity that had made it’s way along Sherlock’s lips. Experimentally, he kissed the same spot, with his mouth open, as John had done to him. He remembered the sensation and groaned, his sound mixing with John’s.  
“You were right,” Sherlock murmured, “this is fun.” He kissed and licked his way along John’s jawline, tasting the skin, the stubble rough against his tongue, until he reached John’s mouth. The panting meant John’s lips were parted, and Sherlock’s open eyes could see him searching for his lips to make contact, to initiate a kiss. Sherlock was fascinated at such desperation after just a few kisses, though he shared the same desire. Teasing, he kissed the very edges of John’s mouth, not quite enough for John to latch onto, until John groaned deeply in frustration, and opened his eyes, looking straight at Sherlock. A determined look was there, and, before he could think, Sherlock was on his back, John having flipped him over, pinning him to the bed. Their eyes locked, and John grinned before dropping his mouth onto Sherlock’s, a hot, wet kiss, that surpassed any other they had shared. Tongues wrestled, and the sounds from both men filled the room as they experienced more of each other than ever before. Their lips slid over one another, slick and warm as John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair once again. The pressure of this gentle hair pulling caused Sherlock to pull away from the kiss to exclaim, “God, John!” They both froze, panting hard, until John said thickly,  
“I’m guessing that’s a yes to the hair, then?” Sherlock laughed breathlessly, the sensations flooding his body threatening to overwhelm him. He was suddenly aware that he had a raging erection, and judging from the hardness pressing against his hip, so did John. A wicked thought entered his mind, and without warning, he slid one hand down to brush the bulge in John’s pants. As he did so, John almost leapt from the bed, eyes wide. He landed sprawled across Sherlock, legs over the edge of the bed. Unsure whether this was a good reaction or not, Sherlock looked at John with trepidation, before John drew a shaky breath and exhaled, “God, John, yourself.” Seeing the confusion still on Sherlock’s face, he added, “That’s a good thing, Sherlock. Unexpected, but….” He trailed off, but his gaze made it clear that the touch of Sherlock’s hand had been the equivalent of his hair pulling earlier – a sudden burst of ecstasy, unexpected but divine. They both giggled, and John ran one hand over his hair, shaking his head.  
“Is it always like this?” Sherlock asked, still a little breathless. Amazing, what he had been missing out on.  
“No,” John said, climbing back up onto the bed, “you have to have the right person.” And he kissed Sherlock, a slow, languid movement. Their mouths were glued together, tongues dancing but more slowly, exploring taste, learning rhythm without the same fight for dominance as earlier. John was lying half on top of Sherlock, one hand on his chest, the other gently cupping his face. Sherlock, his mind whirling, had run one hand into John’s hair, caressing his head, the other on his back. They kissed like that for so long Sherlock lost track of the time, immersed in John – the scent of him, different now that they were so close, the extra body heat and arousal adding an exciting edge to the familiar smell; the touch and taste, once forbidden, now his to explore, caress and kiss. He could have stayed like that forever, and been happy until the sun burned itself out, Sherlock thought, as John gently pulled away, the inches between them feeling like miles.


	12. Chapter 12

They studied each other for a long moment, a smile playing over one, then the other. Finally, with a sigh, John pushed himself to sit up.  
“I need coffee.” He said categorically. “You?” he asked Sherlock, expecting and receiving a negative response. John shrugged and rose, making his way into the kitchen where he started the coffee maker, a silly smile playing over his face as he thought about how his life had changed in the last few hours. He had been anxious about Sherlock, sleeping badly, suffering the pain of unrequited desire; and now, here he was, after learning about Sherlock’s own struggle, having spent a good part of the day in the arms of the one he desired. Lost as he was in his thoughts, John did not hear Sherlock’s bare feet approach him, and the arms that snaked around his waist make him yelp. Sherlock’s deep chuckle in his ear, followed by, “I wonder what else I could do to get you to make that noise.” Made John shake his head, then relax backwards, leaning against Sherlock’s taller frame. The height differential between them was perfect for Sherlock to rest his chin on the top of John’s head, and they stood, linked together, while the coffee machine did it’s thing.  
When Mrs. Hudson arrived unannounced a few minutes later, it could have been any morning – Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring into space, (“Mind palace,” John explained), John reading the paper she had dropped at their door while they were sleeping (or not!). While she only stayed for a few minutes, and Sherlock was effectively not in the room, John was tense. They hadn’t had any conversation about who, when or how they would tell people about the change in their relationship. John could picture some people’s reaction clearly – Anderson and Donovan would lose the plot for sure – however he also knew that there were some unknowns. He wanted to know that he and Sherlock had some level of stability, too, as there was no point breaking the news one day, only for their relationship to end the next. The very idea gave John chills, but he had to be realistic. As he farewelled Mrs. Hudson with internal relief, his phone sounded.

How goes your morning, John? MH.

Mycroft, clearly fishing for intelligence as to his conversation with Sherlock. John repressed a smile. It was uncommon for Mycroft to need to ask for information – he was surely the most well informed man in England, if not the world.

Fine thanks. JW.

John smirked to himself a little. Teasing Mycroft was probably not wise, but it was a rare day that he knew something Mycroft didn’t. Another message came through.

Take good care of him, John. I believe congratulations are traditional. MH. John rolled his eyes.

We’re not getting married, Mycroft! JH.

Mycroft’s response was immediate.

Not yet. MH.

John sighed. There was no getting one up on Mycroft Holmes. The thought crossed John’s mind that Mycroft may have had the apartment bugged, in which case he would certainly know how John’s morning was going.  
“I’ve setup a system to block the outgoing signal. Don’t worry John, our secret is safe.” Sherlock commented out of the blue. His eyes were open now, watching John intently. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who replied to the unanswered question.  
“Mycroft texted me this morning, which I of course ignored. Your conversation with him was frustrating as you tried to fool him, but he saw through your ruse. You wondered how, thought of the possibility of video cameras, and started looking for possible hiding spots.” John acknowledged the accuracy of the deduction with a nod of his head. Picking up his mug of tea, he walked over and locked their door, before making his way to Sherlock and casually sitting on his lap in his chair. It was close quarters, but suited John’s purpose. He grinned down at Sherlock, who was effectively pinned.  
“We need to talk.” He started, then his grin became full blown laughter as Sherlock tried to get up and avoid the conversation.   
“And that’s why I’m sitting on your lap.” He said, chuckling again at the pout on Sherlock’s face.   
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, not looking at John. Taking a deep breath, John started, “Have you thought about how you want to tell people that we’re….” He trailed off here, not sure what term was appropriate for their situation. “Together?” He ended lamely, feeling like that wasn’t really right, though it sufficed.  
Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?” He asked, then looked suspiciously up at John. “Is this one of those social etiquette things again?” John nodded. “Unless you plan on walking into Scotland Yard holding hands, or kissing me over a corpse” here he swatted at Sherlock as the latter looked intrigued by the idea, “we probably should think about the when and who, at least.”  
Again, Sherlock frowned at John. “Is that what people do? Have a party, or make an announcement or something?” Once again, John nodded. ‘Well, not the party, but it’s usual to tell some people first, and perhaps not right away, especially if it will be a talking point.” The phrase, ‘which we clearly will be’ was sub textual but clear to both.  
“Why?” Sherlock said. John looked confused. “If we walked into Scotland Yard, or down the stairs to see Mrs. Hudson, and we were holding hands, would people understand what that meant?” John had to admit that yes, they would. “So why do we need to make an announcement?” Sherlock asked. “We should do it however we want. Who care what people think?”   
John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “As long as they don’t think you’re stupid, right?” Sherlock tiled his head at John in that exasperated way he loved.  
“Of course.” Sherlock reached up to kiss John, but his head was too far below and he could not move for the mass of John.  
“So you do want to just walk into Scotland Yard, holding hands.” John said, the idea making his heart pound with nerves.  
“Ye-p.” Sherlock replied, looking impatient. John stood up distractedly, still thinking over the idea. It was simple and direct, that much was true. Sherlock stood too, then remarked, “You should wear your cream jumper, it’s the best contrast to my charcoal suit.” Understanding took a moment, then John realised Sherlock meant, “Now?”  
“Of course, John, we need to go in to see Lestrade anyway. Two birds, one cab.” He said, then stopped. John was looking at him, a little shell shocked.  
“What?” Sherlock asked, and as John didn’t move, he frowned and asked, “John?”  
“If we put this out there,” John said carefully, “We need to be sure.” As Sherlock looked puzzled, then hurt, then offended, John hastened to continue.  
“I’m not questioning your commitment to me, or mine to you.” John stated firmly, looking Sherlock firmly in the eye. “But, as the more experienced relationship-person here, I’m telling you that sometimes it can be good to wait just a little bit.” Sherlock was not convinced. “Look,” John moved closer to Sherlock, not touching him but within arm’s length. “It could be nice to have something that’s just ours, just us.” He placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest, feeling the warmth of the flesh below. “Because once it’s out there, and people know, everyone’s going to have an opinion. You know that Anderson and Donovan will have a snide comment or two every time they see us. Not to mention the press – this will be news, Sherlock, and it might just be nice to put that off for a little bit.” John could see that his argument was working, that Sherlock was almost convinced. He played his last card, “Plus,” he whispered, as close to Sherlock’s ear as he could get, stretching on tip-toe, “You could plan a special sneak preview for Anderson and Donovan, really freak them out.” He knew that Sherlock would both love the idea and feel the effect of his presence so close, and he was prepared when Sherlock turned and kissed him, hard but briefly.  
“You win this one,” Sherlock conceded, grinning at John. “But we should get to the Yard.” John nodded, lips tingling from the sudden kiss. Sherlock, while inexperienced, was clearly a fast learner.   
Half an hour was all it took for both men to dress and meet again in the sitting room, ready to go. John felt odd, like he had been taken out of the real world for a bit for his time with Sherlock, and now he was to step back in, with his life turned just a little to one side. He couldn’t contain his grin as he straightened Sherlock’s scarf.   
“Now that would make people talk.” Sherlock reprimanded him, “Just be natural, John.” As they made their way down the stairs, John could see that Sherlock seemed overly excited as well, and he suspected that Sherlock was treating this as an undercover assignment – fool the average people into thinking that everything was normal. Oh well, whatever worked, he thought, as they hailed a cab and set off for Scotland Yard.

During the cab ride, Sherlock was occupied with something on his phone. John took the opportunity to reply to another message that had arrived as they descended the stairs.

Can I assume you and Sherlock are both coming to the Yard? Greg.

Yes. John. 

Lestrade’s reply took less than a minute to arrive.

Together? Greg.

Yes, actually, Greg, together. John.

Finally! No kiss-chasey around the crime scene, though, okay? Greg.

John rolled his eyes. At least that was one less person to tell. Although it was also likely that Greg would have told Molly, as it seemed that they had been getting to know each other quite a lot recently. Sighing, John put his phone away. Hopefully, he and Sherlock would be able to focus on the case now.   
As they returned home, it was late. The case had been straightforward, however the tedious lying in wait for the killer to attempt to strike again had taken hours. Greg had taken the opportunity to talk to John while Sherlock put the word out to his homeless network for his suspect.  
“So, you and Sherlock…” Greg had asked with his usual diplomacy.  
“Yep.” John had replied shortly. Greg had grinned.  
“SO you talked to him, then?” Greg had pushed, teasing.  
“Not much with the talking, actually,” John answered bluntly, watching the blush creep up the copper’s face.  
“It’s still new, Greg, so if you could keep it quiet for a bit,” John asked. Greg nodded,  
“Of course, mate, no problem.” Just then, Sherlock returned, and John shot over his shoulder,  
“Except Molly, of course.” He grinned to himself at Greg’s shocked face – he knew something was going on there.

After a tip off from Sherlock’s homeless network, Lestrade had made an arrest before the murderer could strike again. Before returning home, Sherlock and John had grabbed a bite to eat at the Chinese down the street, and they were glad to stumble back inside at 221b.


	13. Chapter 13

Exhausted, John collapsed on the couch, kicking his shoes off. He rested one arm over his forehead, blinking hard to clear the sandy feeling from his eyes. He could hear Sherlock hanging up his jacket and scarf, could picture his face, pleased and relieved and more relaxed, having solved the case earlier that evening.   
“Tired, John?” Sherlock asked, and John replied, “Exhausted.”  
Without warning, Sherlock was nudging John over on the couch, climbing in next to him. They both shifted until they were lying on their sides facing one another, legs tangled, noses touching.  
“Hi.” John murmured. “Was there something?” He was surprised but pleased that Sherlock had decided initiated this moment. Guilty though it made him feel, John still wondered how much of Sherlock was really interested in him – the plain Army doctor invalided home was a sharp contrast to the suave dynamic figure cut by Sherlock Holmes.  
“You were too far away,” Sherlock replied, his voice a deep purr. They both moved into the kiss, a soft, light contact that went on and on, moving slowly as they reestablished their new dynamic after a day in the real world. John could feel the heat coming off Sherlock, though his body was not pressed against him. He reveled in the quiet intimacy of this time with Sherlock, where he wasn’t chasing anything, or deducing anything, he was just enjoying John, focused completely on John. A rare event in everyday life, and one John was learning could actually be part of his life as long as he was with Sherlock.  
“Boys!” A voice came from the doorway, and Sherlock promptly fell backwards off the couch and onto the floor in his haste to stand up and greet Mrs. Hudson. John couldn’t help himself, chuckling at Sherlock before he also greeted Mrs. Hudson. While he knew his face was burning, this was not his first time being sprung by someone’s mother (or equivalent).   
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” He offered, forcing himself to look her in the eye. He reached down one hand to help up Sherlock, who brushed him off, obviously smarting after hearing John laugh at his awkwardness.  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, just checking you’re home safe.” Mrs. Hudson said, coming over and brushing Sherlock’s shoulders down where he had landed on the floor. She patted his cheek, then shot a fond look at John.  
“There’s no denying it now, is there dears?” She deposited their mail on the table and took herself away again, humming to herself as she went.  
Sherlock shot a dirty look at John, who grinned back at him. He was glad Mrs. Hudson had discovered their new relationship so soon. She was always going to breeze over it and be happy for them both. John suspected that she had always assumed they were really together and just didn’t like to talk about it. Proven right, he thought, then turned his attention back to Sherlock.  
“It’s late,” John said, “and I’m exhausted.” Sherlock nodded, looking uncertainly at John.  
“Are you tired?” John prompted.  
“No…” Sherlock replied, hesitating before adding quietly, “but I’d like to sleep with you.” As John raised his eyebrows at this ambiguous remark, Sherlock frowned.  
“I think I should clarify…I mean, I didn’t mean…Not that I wouldn’t, I just wasn’t saying….” He looked at John, who had a patient but amused look on his face.  
“Are you laughing at me?” Sherlock queried him defensively.  
“No, Sherlock.” John answered levelly. “I knew what you meant the first time.” He smiled at Sherlock and moved closer, one hand on his chest for reassurance. “And I know what you meant the second, too.” He reached up to kiss Sherlock gently, and Sherlock responded in kind, though John could see uncertainty still clouding his face. He sighed. It seemed they were both still a little unsure about their new relationship.  
“I’ll meet you in your room in a few minutes.” He said. John got changed in his room – they weren’t up to casual nudity yet, he thought, then brushed his teeth and headed back downstairs. He knocked on Sherlock’s open door, then entered, to find Sherlock standing by the window, looking out at the clear night, still dressed in his shirt and trousers as John had left him.  
“What’s the matter?” John asked, moving around to stand beside Sherlock.  
“I’m pretty hard work.” Sherlock replied morosely. “I have no experience with this John, I’m going to make mistakes all over the place, do you really want to get yourself in to that?” His gaze remained resolutely directed out the window, and Jon could hear the underlying grief and resignation in his voice.  
“Seriously.” John asked him. Gently, John turned Sherlock to face him and was startled to see the taller man’s eyes were bright with tears. “You are serious.” Sherlock simply looked at him. John sighed. Making a ‘wait here’ motion with his hands, he went and collected Sherlock’s track pants and t shirt, then returned. He started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt as he spoke.  
“I know you, Sherlock. I know what you’re good at, and I know what you’re not good at. I know what you lie about, and what you get embarrassed by, yes I do” he added in response to the briefly skeptical look that passed over Sherlock’s face. “You hate not understanding something. This” he indicated the two of them, “is not something that can be easily understood. You have to work at it, and try things, and make mistakes, we both do. Both of us, not just you. You’ll make more mistakes this time, but only because you haven’t made them with anybody else before. I have. It doesn’t matter how anybody else works in their relationship. I will be patient, and honest, and I will listen to you.” John paused here and made sure Sherlock was looking at him. “I don’t want you to be perfect, Sherlock. All I want is for you to be you.” He finished with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and pulled the shirttails out of his trousers. Sliding his hands inside the shirt, John’s warm palms met the smooth skin of Sherlock’s chest. He paused, both men inhaling sharply at the sensation. John didn’t move his hands, not wanting to distract Sherlock further. “All I need for you to do is be honest with me about us. I know you lie to me about work and cases and food and stuff, I don’t care” he blew over Sherlock’s protestations. “But if we are going to work, you have to be honest with me about us.” Sherlock’s eyes had closed when John’s hands had made contact with his skin, and he now opened them and looked right at John.  
“What on earth did I do to deserve someone like you?” He whispered.   
“I have no idea,” John replied, “but it must have been huge.” Sherlock grinned at this, and then breathed in an “oh!” as John slid his hands up, sliding Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders. Pulling at the rear shirttails, Sherlock turned, the light from the open bathroom door putting the scars on his back into sharp relief.  
“Oh my god.” John whispered and Sherlock froze.  
“Is this from…” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Part of my time…away…was in a prison in eastern Europe. It needed to appear legitimate, so Mycroft arranged for me to be arrested. They were rather enthusiastic in trying to get me to confess.” Sherlock admitted quietly. John was horrified – some of these wounds had clearly become infected, and the raised scar tissue would have taken months to form.   
“Don’t look, they’re awful.” Sherlock said, turning back and dropping his shirt on a chair. John was still standing in the same spot, and he looked at Sherlock, who frowned.  
“What does that look mean?” He asked. He pointed to John’s face. “You’ve got a look.” John nodded, then pulled his own shirt over his head. The scar on his shoulder was prominent, marring the otherwise smooth skin, and others were visible too, souvenirs from John’s military life. Sherlock stared at them as John stood in front of him, both men baring their scars.   
“Let’s go to bed,” John suggested, swaying slightly on his feet as a wave of exhaustion came over him again. He reached for Sherlock’s belt buckle, pulling it to release the catch then sliding it out of the loops. He dropped it over the chair and his fingers inched inside the waistband, searching to undo the button. Sherlock’s hand grasped John’s, and John suddenly realised that Sherlock’s abs were tensed, the sensation of John reaching to remove his trousers obviously affecting him. John froze, his cheeks reddening as he realised what he was doing. He pulled his hands away quickly, turning to the bed as he said,  
“I’ll let you get that, then.” As John moved slowly over to the bed, he could hear Sherlock changing out of his trousers and into his track pants. The tiredness that had threatened to overwhelm him was looming again, and he stumbled, one hand out to stop his fall as Sherlock’s arms encircled him from behind, arresting his fall and pinning him back to Sherlock’s chest. Neither man was wearing a shirt, and their skin touching was like a shot of electricity though their bodies. Again, John’s body stopped, refusing to move as Sherlock’s arms held him tight. It was overwhelming, the sensation of skin against skin as each made minute movements and adjustments to their balance. Finally, Sherlock’s arms slid slowly loose from John’s torso, and he turned around to face the taller man.


	14. Chapter 14

“Thanks.” John murmured, unable to elaborate. He could see from the startled expression still on Sherlock’s face that he had experienced the same electric effect when their bodies had met so unexpectedly. Tiredness gone, John looked into the green eyes, wondering what Sherlock was thinking. His face was perplexed, as though he was trying to determine the appropriate response to the situation, but John could never be sure. Tentatively, John reached out to Sherlock, his hand brushing the uncovered ribs. Too prominent, John thought professionally, he could do with finding a few kilos. His fingers tingling at the contact, John reached out with the other hand, too, watching Sherlock’s eyes flutter half closed at the gentle caresses. Sliding his hands around Sherlock, John’s fingers traced the shape of some of the scars crisscrossing Sherlock’s back. His lips were level with Sherlock’s collarbone, so it seemed natural for John to lean slightly forward and trail his lips along the bony ridge. He could no longer see Sherlock, but the ragged, uneven breathing, and the occasional moan, made John certain that Sherlock was enjoying his attentions. He had worked his way along both collarbones, pausing at the little spot in between, licking the dip in the skin as he did so. Sherlock’s gasp of, “God, John!” made him groan himself. Who could have known that giving another man pleasure would be so pleasurable to him, too? Having reached the end of the collarbone, John stretched up to trace hot, open mouthed kisses along Sherlock’s neck. A sudden impish impulse made him stop and pay more attention to one particular spot, sucking at the skin until it was purple. Sherlock’s arms tightened around John at this, his body tensing in response to the feel of John’s mouth on his neck. John chuckled, looking at the rapidly forming bruise and knowing Sherlock would have to wear his scarf for the next week or so in order to cover the tell tale mark.  
“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, his voice deep with desire.   
“Nothing.” John replied. Sherlock would find out soon enough.  
“Really?” Sherlock responded, then took advantage of John grinning up at him to fuse their mouths, a hot wet kiss that left no room for gentle or tender. They were plundering, exploring, rough, and the atmosphere was heavy with the gasps and groans as both sought to be closer to the other. John wanted to bring his hands up to Sherlock’s chest, but the moment he tried to make room for this, Sherlock pressed his body closer to John’s, closing the gap that had formed. John overbalanced, tripping backwards onto the bed, followed by Sherlock. The latter found himself sprawled across John, and he took the advantage right away, straddling John, hips holding him down as he rained kisses on the soldier’s neck and shoulders. Their fingers were entwined, hands locked together as Sherlock kissed and John threw his head back, groaning Sherlock’s name deep in his throat.  
Slowly, Sherlock moved his attention down John’s torso. He kissed one nipple, then the other, eliciting several expletives from John in the process. John was dizzy, head swirling with the sensations assailing his body. Part of him wanted Sherlock to continue, to move lower; the other wanted to savour what he had now, the incredible feeling of their skin on skin. Before he could make any attempt at deciding, Sherlock brought his mouth up to John’s ear.  
“Last time I touched you, you almost levitated,” he breathed into John ear. Extricating one hand, he placed his forefinger on John’s collarbone and slowly started to trail it down John’s body towards the hard swelling in his pants. John gasped, “Sherlock!” at which point Sherlock paused. John moaned with frustration as the fingertip circled one nipple, then he grated, “Please, please….” And the trail resumed, working slowly down John’s ribcage and to the edge of his track pants. John wondered if he was going to slip one hand inside and thought he might burst at the first touch if that was the case. As it was, Sherlock’s hand moved over the fabric to cup John intimately. A cry escaped John’s mouth as the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s palm pressed against his erection. He continued to gasp as Sherlock rubbed his palm up and down, while breathing heavily into John’s ear. The combination of hot breath above and firm pressure below was almost too much for John, and he roughly shoved Sherlock away, not wanting to erupt now, before he had brought Sherlock to the edge, too. Sherlock looked offended, John noted dimly as he stared wide eyed at his lover, and John looked him right in the eyes as he said, “I was this close,” fingers held a centimeter apart, “but I want to touch you first,” and Sherlock’s offense turned into wonder and a shade of embarrassment, John saw. He was sure his face was a little red, too – there was a slightly bizarre edge to having this conversation with a man, let alone his best friend. Trust aside, it was definitely unfamiliar, a small portion of John’s brain noted. The rest was screaming at him to get closer to Sherlock. Hesitantly, John reached out, running his hands over Sherlock’s torso, enjoying the firmness of his body under the warm skin. Part of his brain was reminding John that he had actually never done this, and he hesitated, then slid one hand up to the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss while the other hand sought to grasp the erection he felt pressing on his hip. His hand encircled Sherlock, and the latter, still straddling John, cried out and almost collapsed against John again. Despite his inexperience, John’s hand moved over Sherlock’s length with a sureness borne of his absolute certainty that this was right. Sherlock was gasping into John’s ear, his hips moving against John’s hand. Sherlock buried his face into John’s neck, clearly overwhelmed with the sensation of John touching him so intimately. John could feel his own arousal hot and hard, and he knew it would not take much to bring him to his peak. He wanted so much for Sherlock to experience the utter nirvana of climaxing with someone he knew so intimately, and John knew exactly what would set that happening. He dragged his hand upwards, fingers slipping inside Sherlock’s underwear, and reached down, his bare hand finally encasing Sherlock’s uncovered erection, hot and pulsing against his fingers. He started pumping his fist along the shaft, and almost immediately, Sherlock’s body tensed, his slender frame shaking as he cried out, “John!” John’s hand became warm and sticky, and he felt an enormous sense of fulfillment knowing he had just brought such intense pleasure to Sherlock. For several moments, Sherlock lay in John’s arms, breathing hard and shuddering occasionally against his body. Finally he exhaled a long, slow breath. As John stroked the hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck, one hand still inside Sherlock’s pants, Sherlock shifted his weight. The slight change to their position made John’s still prominent erection clear to Sherlock as it pressed against his stomach. Sherlock’s breathing changed, and John realised that one of Sherlock’s hands, previously clutching the sheets at John’s head, was sliding down his body with intent. John felt his erection pulse with anticipation, and his breath hitched. A pause at the waistband, and this time Sherlock’s fingers ducked under the waistband of John’s pants and mimicked the hold John still bore on him. A loud groan escaped as John’s body bucked in response to Sherlock’s touch. John dimly recorded Sherlock smiling against his neck, as his hand explored the rigid length within. Rapidly, a rhythm developed, and it wasn’t long before John was calling out, gripping Sherlock’s back as he coated his hand with sticky liquid of his own.  
Some time later, it may have been minutes or many hours, John roused himself. Both he and Sherlock had released their hands and performed a perfunctory cleanup before collapsing into bed, bodies tangled together as one. John had instantly fallen into a deep sleep, exhausted both by the long day and their shared experiences in bed. He woke to find the bed empty. It had been so for a while, given how cold he was, and he threw his t shirt on before venturing out to find Sherlock. It was dark outside, so he can’t have been asleep for long; he was still tired, but he wanted to find Sherlock. The workings of his mind were complex, and John worried how Sherlock would interpret both their conversation and their more amorous activities the previous evening.   
Pacing out into the sitting room, John found Sherlock curled up on the couch, awake. Sherlock’s eyes followed John as he entered the room, his body not moving until John said,   
“Budge up.” Sherlock sat up at one end of the couch, folding his body into an impossibly small package. John sat at the other end, facing Sherlock.  
“Why are we here?” John asked, and Sherlock frowned.  
“Philosophy?” He asked. John shook his head.  
“As opposed to in bed, where it’s warm and we can sleep.” He explained, stifling a yawn. Sherlock didn’t look at John, saying instead,   
“You should go back to bed, you’re still tired.”  
“I don’t want to go back to bed without you, it’s cold.” John replied patiently. Looking closely at Sherlock, he could see that the detective was tired – his eyes were bloodshot, as they became when he required sleep.  
“So, why are we here?” John asked again. Sherlock sighed.   
“This is one of those times when you want me to tell the truth, right?” He asked, and John nodded. He sighed again.  
“What if I say it wrong, you know I don’t do tact.” Sherlock asked, and despite the slightly sarcastic tone, John could tell he was worried about offending him.  
“It doesn’t matter,” John said, “I’ll know what you mean.” Sherlock took a deep breath.  
“I can’t sleep in there, it’s too stressful.” He said. John stared for a moment, stifling the urge to burst out laughing.  
“Stressful in what way?” John asked carefully.  
“You’re too distracting, I keep trying to relax and get to sleep but I can smell you, and you keep shifting and I wonder if you’re going to….” Sherlock broke off, refusing to look at John, clearly embarrassed. John sat for a moment, trying to piece it together. He thought he’d worked it out, and put to Sherlock,   
“You’re too distracted by how attractive I am, and you’re worried I’m going to initiate sex again and you’ll have to participate?” John said, realising how odd it was to have to be so explicit about what was usually either implied or subtext. Sherlock nodded once, still avoiding John’s gaze.  
“Well, I can have a shower, I suppose,” John offered, “but more importantly, Sherlock, you’re allowed to say no, you know. It’s called consent.” After digesting this, Sherlock looked suspiciously at John.   
“Really?” He asked John nodded. “But what if I want to, but I really want to sleep? I’m very tired, now, for some reason.” John smiled at this.  
“I promise I won’t jump you. Tonight, anyway, he added, finally eliciting a smile. “And you’re tired because you had an intense emotional and physical experience. At least,” John shrugged self-consciously, “I hope you did.”  
Sherlock looked up sharply at John, then his gaze softened and he unfolded himself so he could lean into John, their noses almost touching.   
“Of course I did.” He said quietly. “That was…incredible.” He appeared to be lost for words, a rare occurrence, John noted. “And you?” John nodded vigorously, “Definitely.” They smiled at each other for a minute, uncertainty banished as each had their insecurities soothed.   
“Maybe I will come back to bed,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him up off the couch.


	15. Chapter 15

Surprisingly, their new relationship did not change as much of their lives as John would have thought. The basics remained the same – solving cases, Sherlock filling the kitchen with various experiments, the ongoing battle against boredom. There were differences now, and for the better, John felt. He understood Sherlock well enough to know that puzzles were essential to him function, and as such, they took a precedence over everything else. Knowing this didn’t offend John; it was just who Sherlock was, and he believed he was one of the few people to really understand this aspect of Sherlock. Therefore, while there was a puzzle, Sherlock’s focus was largely on finding a solution. Now, however, Sherlock would spend time in his mind palace sitting on the couch, John’s feet on his lap (or vice versa). At night, while Sherlock worked, John would sleep in Sherlock’s bed, or sometimes on the couch, his head in Sherlock’s lap. While they never spoke of it, John knew that Sherlock had registered his changed behaviour and was grateful for his consideration.   
When the puzzle was solved, the case was over, Sherlock would have a period of downtime, where the high of his success precluded the restless boredom that otherwise controlled his life. This was John’s favourite time. Sherlock, relaxed and contented, would turn his focus to John, and they would spend hours laying on the couch together, enjoying the closeness they had missed while Sherlock was working. John was able to get Sherlock to eat more often, but the most significant difference was that Sherlock would sleep through the night, wrapped in John’s arms, every night that he was not working. He claimed that it was the only way for John to avoid his nightmares, but John could see that it was making for a happier Sherlock, at least at home.   
The only point of contention remained that their relationship was still generally a secret. Sherlock was impatient, proclaiming not to care about what people thought, while John, feeling increasingly guilty, still wanted to keep Sherlock to himself. The few people that did know (Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Greg and Molly) were trustworthy, but John knew that others would not be so accepting, and that the moment they revealed their relationship, there would be renewed media attention, not to mention the ongoing barbs from the likes of Anderson and Donovan. And no matter what Sherlock claimed, John knew that this casual nastiness could take it’s toll.

One morning, when Sherlock was on a case, John awoke alone on the couch. He knew he had fallen asleep with Sherlock, his head on Sherlock’s lap, Sherlock’s hand caressing his hair absentmindedly. He must have been deeply asleep, because he had not registered Sherlock rising from the couch. Frowning at a half remembered dream, John rose to see Sherlock standing at his microscope, staring at something and muttering to himself.  
“Morning,” Sherlock said, startling John. Some days he barely spoke, especially when he was concentrating, and it was never a guarantee that he would answer John.   
“Morning.” John replied. He stretched, then made his way over to make a cup of tea.  
“Was Lestrade here last night?” He asked as he waited for the kettle to boil. The dream was fading, but he was sure that Greg had been a part of it.  
“Yes.” Sherlock replied, looking up from the microscope. He obviously wasn’t concentrating too hard if he was willing to look at John while they talked.   
“Why are you frowning?” Sherlock asked as John stared at him.  
“So Greg was here, last night. While I was sleeping on the couch. With you on the couch.” John clarified the situation with increasing incredulity. Sherlock nodded, “Yes.”  
“What on earth is he going to think about that?” John almost exploded. Sherlock shrugged.  
“He made a logical deduction, and congratulated us. We spoke about the case and he went home.” Sherlock answered in an offhand manner. John was still staring, the now boiled kettle forgotten.  
“I thought….oh never mind.” In his mind, John gave up. Really, it was time they probably just told everybody anyway, and Greg knew already.  
Finally remembering the kettle, John made a cup of tea, then turned back to Sherlock. The latter was still looking at him, as though waiting for direction.  
“Problem?” Sherlock asked.  
“No.” John answered. “Do we need to go into the Yard today?”   
“Yes, I’ve solved the case.” Sherlock answered, and John nodded.   
“Give me ten minutes then.”

Do me a favour, make sure Anderson and Donovan are near your office in about half an hour. John.

What? Greg.

Let’s just say we will probably make an entrance worth seeing. John.

Good grief. Thanks for the heads up. Greg.

Not my idea. Oh well. John.

Good luck. Greg.

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. Greg was, in his gruff, copper way, giving his stamp of approval, and that made John feel better about the potential maelstrom of controversy they were about to enter at the yard today. Taking a deep breath, he said to Sherlock, “Anderson and Donovan will be in Lestrade’s office.”  
“Okay.” Sherlock answered, distracted by his thoughts on the case.  
“So, might be a good idea to have some fun, mess with their heads…” John let his voice trial off, and Sherlock turned to look at him.  
“Really?” He sounded surprised, and John nodded. Sherlock grinned, and impulsively John kissed him. This would have been the perfect time to say, “I love you.” He thought, then shook that thought away. Despite the fact that he had been thinking it more and more often, John still held a level of uncertainty about his future with Sherlock. He needed to know that his commitment would be returned if he was going to take the step to tell Sherlock how deeply he cared. Breaking off the kiss as they approached the Yard, John looked at Sherlock, who seemed excited as a kid at Christmas. As though he could read John’s thoughts, he said quietly, “It’s Christmas!” John knew he reserved this statement for only the most exciting of times. Shaking his head, John followed Sherlock out of the cab, paying the cabbie before taking Sherlock’s proffered hand. They walked into the building hand in hand, John’s senses heightened. He was determined not to look around, though he was sure he could hear the whispers around them as they crossed the atrium towards the elevators.  
“Nothing too showy, Sherlock, remember we still have to work here.” John warned him in the elevator, as the detective restlessly shifted his weight from side to side. Sherlock just gave John a look that said, “Oh, John, I think not!”   
They stepped off the elevator into the open office that bore the homicide detective’s desks, hands still clasped. Sensing John’s apprehension, Sherlock squeezed his hand, and they shared a look of mutual understanding and affection that John knew would speak volumes to those watching. He suppressed a grin as he spotted Anderson and Donovan outside Lestrade’s office, staring open mouthed at John and Sherlock. As John and Sherlock passed the gob smacked pair, Sherlock winked at Anderson.   
“What the hell….” Donovan breathed, finally finding her voice.  
“You’re meant to be a detective, Donovan.” Sherlock taunted. “Even you could figure this one out, but in case you needed an extra clue…” And he turned and kissed John, hard and convincingly, before breaking it off and sweeping into Lestrade’s office. John, who had been taken by surprise, was left standing in front of Anderson and Donovan. He looked at them, shrugged, then followed Sherlock into the office, closing the door after him.  
Inside Lestrade’s office, Sherlock was relating his deductions to the DI, who was taking notes and shaking his head as usual at Sherlock’s ability. John caught Sherlock’s eye and gave him a “What the hell was that?” look, to which Sherlock returned a “What?” without breaking his train of thought to Lestrade. When Sherlock finished, Lestrade asked John,  
“So how did it go?”  
“A bit of a show off, as usual,” John replied, noting Sherlock’s faux offence, “but we got the point across.”  
“You might need to cut Anderson and Donovan even more slack than usual,” Sherlock added, “I think their brains may have exploded.” Lestrade chuckled, then stopped himself, caught between the humor and his professional position.  
“Alright,” he said, “Leave them to me, then.” John and Sherlock bade Lestrade farewell, before leaving the Yard for a celebratory lunch.


	16. Chapter 16

Several hours and as many pints later, Sherlock and John reeled home. With nothing else to do, they had sat in the restaurant for ages, chatting with Angelo and drinking, while Sherlock made deductions about people passing to keep himself amused. John didn’t realise how many times Angelo had refilled his glass until they had stood up and he had promptly had to sit back down again. Giggling like children, they had allowed Angelo to pour them into a cab back to Baker Street. John made a valiant effort to sober up on the way home, knowing how disapproving Mrs. Hudson would be, to no avail. They must have paid the cabbie, because he drove off, leaving them clutching each other outside 221b. It took several goes for Sherlock to get his key in the lock, when they could finally lurch through the door, once again giggling like crazy. Dramatically shushing each other, they stumbled up the stairs, tripping several times on their way. When they did make it into their flat, John was sober enough to insist they each downed a pint of water before they collapsed.  
“But I don’t wanna!” Sherlock whined, taking the glass and drinking anyway.  
“Come on, I love you too much to see you, to see you….something. Just drink it all up.” John insisted groggily before drinking his own and joining Sherlock on the couch.  
“Hmmmmmmmmmm.” John murmured contentedly.  
“Me too-oo.” Sherlock replied. John didn’t answer, so Sherlock pinched his cheeks together, shaking his face until his eyes blearily opened and he said, “Whaaaa?”  
“I love you too.” Sherlock repeated, then dropped John’s face and promptly passed out.  
“Lovely.” John murmured, also passing out.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s greeting floated up the stairs ahead of her, startling both men into a semblance of wakefulness. They groaned, sitting somewhat up and knuckling sleep from their eyes. Mrs. Hudson bustled in, dropping their mail off and reprimanding Sherlock for the state of the kitchen. She didn’t blink an eye at her boys sleeping on the couch in the early evening, and before either could speak coherently, she was gone. John rose, desperately wanting to brush his teeth and see what the time was. His impromptu nap had messed with his sense of the day, and he felt out of sorts.  
“I’m going to have a shower.” He told Sherlock, who had rolled back into a ball on the couch, squeezing his eyes closed. John chuckled.  
“Lightweight.” He muttered fondly, then made his way to the bathroom to freshen himself up. An hour later, he felt much better, and he went searching for Sherlock. Seeing the pile of mail, he was distracted long enough for Sherlock to move into the bathroom ,slamming to door behind him. Shrugging, John grabbed the newspaper and, out of habit, started scanning for any interesting potential cases. It wasn’t long before Sherlock reappeared, showered and dressed again.  
“Come on.” He said perfunctorily to John, who had to leap up to catch Sherlock, who had started down the stairs without him. They ended up at a greasy café around the corner, ordering a full breakfast despite the time.  
“Best thing for a hangover, apparently.” Sherlock commented after ordering for both of them.  
“True,” John concurred, “though I don’t feel particularly hungover, actually.” He grinned at Sherlock.   
“I know, Angelo was serving light beer.” Sherlock replied easily.   
“Light beer?” John repeated, then his frown cleared as he realised.  
“Why’d you do that?” He asked Sherlock, who was watching people out the window. He shrugged.  
“Hangovers are boring. Placebo effect takes care of the fun drunk time, then...” he shrugged again.  
“No hangover.” John finished, shaking his head but no surprised. To be honest, it was pretty great. He could enjoy the bit where he was drunk, but not have to suffer through the after effects.   
“And here I was thinking it was because I made you drink all that water.” John teased, then paused. Running the scene through his head, John heard his own words back – “…I love you too much…..” He frowned, wondering if that really happened. As the scene continued to play in his head, he could see Sherlock’s face very close and out of focus, and his voice as though from far away, saying, “I love you too.”

“Lovely.” John repeated his response from the evening before. He shot a look at Sherlock, who had seemed not to hear him. Had he remembered what had happened, or was it all some made up memory courtesy of that placebo effect? More importantly, if it were real, did Sherlock remember it? He seemed not to have, seemed to be perfectly normal. John knew, though, that Sherlock could be an impressive actor when he needed to be. As he pondered this unknown, their breakfasts arrived and John realised that placebo or not, he was starving. He started eating, attention momentarily diverted from this encouraging development.

They decided to walk home, the crisp air a pleasant contrast to the stuffy restaurant. John took Sherlock’s hand, and they both enjoyed this new freedom to do so outside the confines of Baker Street. As they walked, John thought. His declaration of love had slipped out, while Sherlock’s had been a much clearer and more straightforward statement. Perhaps his memory was real? Even with light beer, Sherlock was not used to drinking and could have conceivably been drunk enough to have no memory of their conversation. Part of John just wanted to ask straight out, however he knew that Sherlock still needed reassurance and that his best chance of getting an honest response from Sherlock was to make his feelings clear first.   
“You’re awfully quiet.” Sherlock commented as they walked along a high street, dark shopfronts passing them by.   
“Just thinking.” John answered evasively.  
“About what?” Sherlock asked. John hesitated.  
“You said you’d tell me the truth, John.” Sherlock reminded him, without heat and without breaking his stride.  
“Yes, I did.” John admitted. His heart was pounding. Was now really the time? Sherlock was silent, unusually patient as he waited for John to speak.   
“Thinking about exactly how drunk we were this afternoon.” John replied, still evading Sherlock’s question. Sherlock stopped suddenly and gave John his, “Really, is that all?” look.   
“You’re evading my question.” Sherlock stated.  
“A little bit, yes, I am.” John admitted.  
“Why don’t you just tell me?” Sherlock asked, and John could see real confusion. He really doesn’t know why I’m not telling him the whole truth, John realised. He wasn’t asking suspiciously, like someone who knows the reasons that people withhold information. He honestly doesn’t know why people don’t just say whatever is on their minds. John sighed. He would have to explain, be explicit. At least there would be no misunderstandings, he tried to console himself.  
“Do you remember our conversation when we arrived home this afternoon?” John asked resignedly. With any luck, half the work would be done for him.  
“Of course I do.” Sherlock scoffed.  
“Revisit it.” John said, knowing that Sherlock could walk back through the scene like a movie, re-hearing each line. He waited patiently as Sherlock did so, eyes unfocussed. When he looked back at John, there was confusion again.  
“So?” He prompted John to continue his explanation.  
“You told me you love me.” John stated, and Sherlock’s eyebrows raised.  
“No I didn’t.” He said, and the chuckle was awkward, staged. John stared for a moment.  
“Yes, you did. We both did.” He reiterated, and John’s surprise at Sherlock’s lapse of memory was only matched by Sherlock’s shock at the content he missed.  
“I remember trying to get you to be quiet as we came up the stairs,” Sherlock muttered, “Then we crashed on the couch.” He looked panicked as he realised there was time unaccounted for.  
“This is what usually happens when you drink too much, Sherlock.” John explained patiently. Sherlock’s mind was racing, John could see, and he let it happen as Sherlock struggled to restore his missing minutes. Finally, he looked again at John. He grabbed John’s shoulders.  
“What happened?” Sherlock asked, a little desperately.  
“It’s okay.” John reassured him. “It was only a few minutes. We drank some water, I had to make you drink yours, then we crashed out, as you said.” John shrugged. “You only missed a few minutes.” Sherlock’s frame sagged with relief, and he hugged John, half burying him in the enormous coat, before John could feel him tense again.  
“You remembered the other bit?” John queried, extricating himself from Sherlock.  
“I remember what you said two minutes ago.” Sherlock replied, looking steadily at John. There was a steadiness to him now, as though he was steeling himself for bad news. His gaze was steady as he said,   
“What did I say to you, John?” His tone was moderate, as though he was requesting rather than commanding an answer. John smiled at him. Knowing Sherlock so well, John could see that he was bracing for what he feared – that he had been mistaken, that John did not love him and it was all for naught. John’s heart swelled, hoping that his answer would bring peace and emotional security to Sherlock.  
“You said, “I love you too.”” John repeated clearly. “You were responding to me, when I had said, “I love you too much to…something.”” Sherlock had been listening, entranced, but at this last, he frowned.  
“Something?” He queried. John shrugged. “I was pretty drunk, I couldn’t finish the sentence.”  
The both laughed at this, and Sherlock lowered his forehead to touch John’s.  
“I love you.” Sherlock whispered into the tiny intimate space between them.  
“I love you too.” John replied, and they smiled, each experiencing such relief at knowing the other returned the deep seated feelings of his own heart. They stood like that for a moment before turning, hand in hand to continue walking. Each bore a smile, and they turned often to look at each other, then break out laughing.  
“People will think we’re drunk.” Sherlock observed.  
“Hate for that to happen.” John retorted drily, looking pointedly at Sherlock.  
“Alright, alright.” Sherlock grumbled good naturedly.  
“Git.” John said.  
“Lightweight.” Sherlock replied, squeezing John’s hand affectionately.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last chapter of my first complete, posted story. I finished it a few weeks ago, and I've been sitting on it since then. Reading so much amazing Johnlock has made me second guess myself, but I want to add my work to the collection, so here I go, biting the bullet and sharing it with you all. If you've read this far, thank you so much for sticking with me. I feel humbled that you've spent your time following this story! Hopefully I'll find time to finish out some of my many WIPs soon and add to our collection of Sherlock works.

They continued to walk home, and John’s hand felt safe and warm enclosed in Sherlock’s. They passed an open bookshop and John slowed to look at the display of military histories out the front. Sherlock muttered,  
“Back in a minute,” and John assumed he had ducked inside the bookstore. A few moments later he was back, and they continued along their way. John sensed a change in Sherlock, a nervous excitement that had not been there before. As soon as they walked in to 221, Sherlock kissed John, pressing him against the wall before the door had even closed properly against the cold outside.   
“Sherlock?” John half asked, half gasped as his body responded to the passionate kisses Sherlock was now running down his jaw.  
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, pushing the detective back, wanting to speak but needing a moment after the reaction Sherlock had evoked in him.  
“What are you doing? No wait, let’s go upstairs.” John turned and started up the stairs ahead of Sherlock, not wanting to have any part of this conversation outside of their own flat. Sherlock closed the door behind them, and John stood, arms crossed, waiting for Sherlock to explain his behavior. Sherlock locked eyes with John, then shrugged and turned away, removing his coat and scarf. John’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped behind Sherlock, fumbling in the pocket of Sherlock’s coat for the package he had glimpsed earlier.   
“Wait…” Sherlock started, then stopped, his face aflame, eyes averted from John. Opening the plain white bag, John extracted two small boxes – one a packet of condoms, the other a tube of personal lubricant. He was puzzled for a moment, before realising why Sherlock would have bought them. He must have gone into the chemist, not the bookshop.  
“Sherlock?” John asked tentatively.  
“Yes, John?” Sherlock replied, equally quietly.  
“Did you think we might need these tonight?” John’s heart was beating fast. Sherlock shrugged in a way that John knew meant, “Yes, but I don’t want to commit to an answer.”  
Taking a deep breath, John passed the boxes to Sherlock and said, “Better put these in your room, then.” He held the gaze Sherlock turned on him, each recognizing the tentativeness and desire of the other. This would be an interesting night, John thought to himself as Sherlock left the room.  
After Sherlock returned, they had tried to sit and watch TV, until Sherlock got so upset at the solution to a mystery movie that John had to turn it off.  
“Let’s just go to bed.” Sherlock suggested in disgust, still glowering at the TV. John hesitated. So far in their relationship, he had been the more experienced partner, guiding Sherlock through some of the more ambiguous moments. Now, though, he felt like a nervous teenager again, about to embark on a completely new experience with his partner. True, he and Sherlock had become much more comfortable with each other, especially in a physical sense, however they had not yet explored anything that had required the use of either condoms or lubricant. John had to admit that he was both curious and hesitant, having never shared such intimacy with another man. He trusted Sherlock, though, and after their mutual declaration of love this afternoon, he felt ready to take this step with Sherlock.  
Sherlock was looking expectantly at John, who rose slowly and took his hand. His hesitation must have shown on his face, because Sherlock said, “What’s the matter?”  
John took a deep breath and admitted, “Bit nervous, actually.”  
“Because…” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure it out.   
“New experience?” He guessed finally, and John grinned, glad to have this moment to lighten the mood. He tapped his nose, and Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, then squeezed John’s hand.   
“Me too,” he whispered, then kissed John lightly. John leaned into him for a moment, breathing him in, before straightening and following Sherlock into the bedroom.

It was a different atmosphere, John thought to himself, as they turned to face each other. Sherlock seemed to be taking the lead, tugging John’s jumper over his head, unbuttoning his shirt. This was generally John’s role, but he was glad to relinquish it to this confident version of Sherlock. They knew each other well enough now that Sherlock knew just where to kiss John, to focus his attention for maximum effect. John closed his eyes as Sherlock’s lips trailed down his jaw, kissing his neck as he fumbled with John’s belt. John pulled at the tails of Sherlock’s shirt, desperate to feel skin under his hands. Sherlock paused to slide his own shirt over his head, before ducking to kiss John again. They embraced, torsos pressing together, the friction generating heat that only increased their arousal. John wasn’t sure how it happened but all of a sudden, he and Sherlock were entwined together on the bed, their clothes on the floor, hands touching bodies and mouths glued together. Every slide of skin over skin seemed to elicit a groan from one or the other, and the electricity between them was more intense than ever. In spite of his earlier reservations, John knew that he wanted to be closer to Sherlock, to bury himself within Sherlock and feel his body surround him. He was surprised to realize that as much as he wanted to have that experience, he also wanted Sherlock to have the same experience with him. As he was accommodating this idea, Sherlock broke away from their kiss, trailing his lips up to John’s ear, where he whispered, “I want you inside me, John.” John gasped, Sherlock’s words sending a surge of desire through him. Energized, he rolled Sherlock, landing on top of him, taking control for the first time this evening. He kissed Sherlock, hard on the mouth, then trailed down to lick at one nipple. Sherlock groaned, bucking under John. As John reached over for the condoms and lubricant, Sherlock reached for John, grasping the hardness throbbing against his hip. John moaned aloud, arching forward as Sherlock gripped him. With a great effort, John ripped open the boxes. Somewhat regretfully, he pushed Sherlock’s hand away, sheathing himself in a condom.  
“Allow me.” Sherlock offered hoarsely, squeezing the lubricant from the tube and covering John’s erection, lingering as John trembled, fighting to maintain control. John leaned forward, kissing Sherlock and entwining their hands so that his fingers were also slick with lubricant. They lay side by side on the bed, John’s hands gripping the firm roundness of Sherlock’s ass as he breathed hard into John’s neck. John kissed and sucked on Sherlock’s shoulder as his hands explored, drifting further until he could press one finger inside Sherlock. This elicited a cry from Sherlock, and John stopped, until Sherlock pushed back into John’s hand, encourage him to continue. John moved his hand slowly, allowing Sherlock to become accustomed to his presence, adding a second finger, then a third. Sherlock was moaning now, his breath hot on John’s neck. John, heart pounding, moved his hand away and shifted to look into Sherlock’s face, his eyes questioning. Eyes hooded by arousal, Sherlock, met John’s gaze and nodded, rolling until he was straddling John’s slick, pulsing erection. John maneuvered himself until he was placed to enter Sherlock. Breathing hard, John and Sherlock looked at each other, before John slowly flexed his hips, pressing upwards, sinking himself into Sherlock. A sharp intake of breath from Sherlock was eclipsed by John’s cry, “Oh, God!” They lay still for a long moment, adjusting to the sensation of their new intimacy. Finally, Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, “Move, John.”   
Carefully, slowly, John moved his hips, biting his lip to keep himself from thrusting hard and fast as he so desperately wanted to do. He could feel Sherlock shaking, hear the guttural sounds coming from his throat. John’s tempo was unhurried and restrained, and slowly, he felt Sherlock start to move in sync with him. The sounds of their ragged breathing melded into one as they moved together, until John felt his control slipping, his thrusts more uninhibited. John trembled as he climaxed, pushing into Sherlock and crying his name. He laid for a long time, feeling the weight of Sherlock on him, the aftershocks rippling through his body. As his euphoria subsided, John kissed Sherlock’s shoulder, noting ruefully the darkening marks he had left earlier. Sherlock, eyes closed, had shifted his weight, sliding sideways onto the bed. John rolled away briefly, dealing with the condom, then turned back to Sherlock.  
“Hi,” John said softly, mirroring Sherlock, one hand behind his head, the other resting on the bed between them. Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, but he reached his hand over, entwining their fingers.  
“You okay?” John asked, his voice hoarse from his earlier shouts. Sherlock didn’t reply, but a smile crossed his face. John realised that Sherlock was not only okay, but now half asleep in his own post-euphoric haze. Smiling, John allowed himself to drift off, too.

Next morning, John awoke to see Sherlock lying in exactly the same spot, watching him sleep. He blinked, then a slow grin broke his serious demenour.  
“Good morning.” Sherlock spoke first.  
“Great morning.” John replied, moving in to kiss Sherlock. He could feel Sherlock smiling.  
“I love you.” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips.  
“I love you too.” John replied. Life was good.


End file.
